Ivooo.  LUycILuzAM^  y.  ai/J^u, 


V^/z-^- 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 

BEQUEST  OF 


THE   CLEAN    HEART 


By  a.  S.  M.  HUTCHINSON 


The  Happy  Warrior 
Once  Aboard  the  Lugger  — 
The  Clean  Heart 
If  Winter  Comes 


There  was  about  this  unusual  genlienian  chat  which  douDly 
attracted  Mr.  Wriford.     Frontispiece.     See  pa^e  jp. 


THE    CLEAN 
HEART 


,>v-- 


BY 


A.   S.    M.    HUTCHINSON 

AUTHOR   OF   "  THE    HAPPY    WARRIOR,"    ETC 


WITH   FRONTISPIECE   BY 

R.   M.   CROSBY 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,   BROWN,   AND    COMPANY 

1922 


■PR60I6' 


Copyright,  1914, 
By  a.  S.  M.  Hutchinson. 

All  rights  reserved 


PRiNTrD  IN  THK  United  States  of  America 


Create  in  me  a  clean  heart,  0  God:  and  renew  a  right 

spirit  within  me. 
The  sacrifice  of  God  is  a  broken  spirit:  a  broken  and 

a  contrite  heart,  O  God,  thou  wilt  not  despise. 

Psalm  LI. 


CONTENTS 
BOOK   ONE 

ONE  OF  THE  LUCKY  ONES 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    Mr.  Weiford 3 

II.    YotJNG  Writord 16 

III.  Figure  of  Wriford 38 

IV.  One  Runs:    One  Follows 48 

V.    One  is  Met 58 

VI.    Fighting  It:   Telling  It 65 

VII.    Hearing  It 75 

BOOK    TWO 

ONE  OF  THE  JOLLY  ONES 

I.    Intentions,  before  having  his  hair  cut,  of  a  Wagoner  89 

II.    Passionate  Attachment  to  Liver  of  a  Wagoner  .       .  97 

III.  Disturbed  Equipoise  of  a  Counterbalancing  Machine  105 

IV.  First  Person  Singular 108 

V.    Intentions,  in  his  Nightshirt,  of  a  Farmer       .       .114 

VI.    Rise  antj  Fall  of  Interest  in  a  Farmer*     .       .       .  121 

VII.    Profound  Attachment  to  his  Farm  of  a  Farmer     .  125 

Vin.    First  Person  Extraordinary 139 

BOOK    THREE 

ONE  OF  THE  FRIGHTENED  ONES 

I.    Body  Work 143 

II.    Cross  Work 154 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

III.  Water  that  Takes  your  Breath 165 

IV.  Water  that  Swells  and  Sucks 176 

V.    Water  that  Breaks  and  Roars 183 

BOOK   FOUR 

ONE  OF  THE  OLDEST  ONES 

I.    Kindness  without  Gratitude 199 

II.      QUESTICINS   without  ANSWERS 2IO 

ni.    Crackjaw  Name  for  Mr.  Wrxford 218 

IV.    Clurk  for  Mr.  Master 226 

V.    Maintop  Hail  for  the  Captain 232 

BOOK    FIVE 

ONE  OF  THE  BRIGHT  ONES 

I.    In  a  Field 243 

II.    In  a  Parlour 253 

III.  Trial  of  Mr.  Wriford 269 

IV.  Martyrdom  of  Master  Cupper 284 

V.    Essie's  Idea  of  It 292 

VI.    The  Vacant  Corner 305 

VII.    EssLE 316 

VIII.    Our  Essie 326 

IX.    Not  to  Deceive  Her 339 

X.    The  Dream 354 

XI.    The  Business 361 

XII.    The  Seeing 378 

XIII.  Prayer  of  Mr.  Wriford 387 

XIV.  Pilgrimage 396 


BOOK   ONE 
ONE   OF  THE  LUCKY   ONES 


THE   CLEAN   HEART 

BOOK   ONE 
ONE   OF   THE   LUCKY   ONES 

CHAPTER  I 

MR.    WRIFORD 


Her  hands  were  firm  and  cool,  and  his  were  trem- 
bling, trembling;  but  her  eyes  were  laughing,  laughing, 
and  his  own  eyes  burned. 

Mr.  Wriford  had  caught  at  her  hands.  For  a  brief 
moment,  as  one  in  great  agony  almost  swoons  in  ec- 
stasy of  relief  at  sudden  cessation  of  the  pain,  he  had 
felt  his  brain  swing,  then  float,  in  most  exquisite  calm 
at  the  peace,  at  the  strength  their  firm,  cool  touch  com- 
municated to  him.  Then  Mr.  Wriford  saw  the  laugh- 
ing lightness  in  her  eyes,  and  felt  his  own  —  whose  dull, 
aching  burn  had  for  that  instant  been  slaked  —  burn, 
burn  anew;  and  felt  beat  up  his  brain  that  dreadful 
rush  of  blood  that  often  in  these  days  terrified  him; 
and  felt  that  lift  and  surge  through  all  his  pulses  that 
sometimes  reeled  him  on  his  feet;  and  knew  that  baffing 
lapse  of  thought  which  always  followed,  as  though  the 
surge  were  in  fact  a  tide  of  affairs  that  flung  him  high 

3 


4  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

and  dry  and  left  him  out  of  action  to  pick  his  way  back 
—  to  grope  back  to  the  thread  of  purpose,  to  the  train 
of  thought,  that  had  been  snapped  —  if  he  could! 

Mr.  Wriford  knew  that  the  day  was  coming  when  he 
could  not.  Every  time  when,  in  the  midst  of  ideas,  of 
speech,  of  action,  the  surge  swept  him  adrift  and  stranded 
him  vacant  and  bewildered,  the  effort  to  get  back  was 
appreciably  harder  —  the  interval  appreciably  of  greater 
length.  The  thing  to  do  was  to  hang  on  —  hang  on 
like  death  while  the  tide  surged  up  your  brain.  That 
sometimes  left  you  with  a  recollection  —  a  clue  —  that 
helped  you  back  more  quickly. 

Mr.  Wriford  hung  on. 

The  surge  took  him,  swept  him,  left  him.  He  was 
with  Brida  in  Brida's  jolly  little  flat  in  Knightsbridge, 
holding  her  hands.  It  was  a  longish  time  since  he  had 
been  to  see  her.  She  had  come  into  the  room  gay  as 
ever  — 

Mr.  Wriford  got  suddenly  back  to  the  point  whence 
he  had  been  suddenly  cut  adrift;  remembered  the  surge, 
realised  the  lapse,  recalled  how  he  had  caught  at  her 
hands,  how  they  had  soothed  him,  how,  like  a  mock, 
he  had  seen  the  laughter  in  her  eyes.  Mr.  Wriford 
threw  back  her  hands  at  her  with  a  violent  motion,  and 
went  back  a  step,  not  meaning  to,  and  knew  again  the 
frequent  desire  in  moments  of  stress  such  as  had  just 
passed,  and  in  moments  of  recovery  such  as  he  now  was 
in,  to  shout  out  very  loudly  a  jumble  of  cries  of  despair, 
as  often  he  cried  them  at  night,  or  inwardly  when  not 
alone.  "0  God!  Oh,  I  say!  I  say!  I  say!  Oh,  this 
can't  go  on!  Oh,  this  must  end  —  this  must  end!  Oh, 
I  say!  I  say!  "  but  mastered  the  desire  and  effected 
instead  a  confusion  of  sentences  ending  with  "  then." 


MR.  WRIFORD  5 

A  very  great  effort  was  required.  Mastery  of  such 
impulses  had  been  undermined  these  ten  years,  sUpping 
from  him  these  five,  altogether  leaving  him  in  recent 
months.  To  give  way,  and  to  release  in  clamorous  cries 
the  tumult  that  consumed  him,  would  ease  him,  he  felt 
sure;  but  it  would  create  a  scene  and  have  him  stared 
at  and  laughed  at,  he  knew.  That  stopped  him.  Fear  of 
the  betrayal  of  his  state,  that  day  and  night  he  dreaded, 
once  again  saved  him;  and  therefore  in  place  of  the 
loud  cries,  Mr.  Wriford  — ■  thirty,  not  bad-looking, 
clever,  successful,  held  to  be  "  one  of  the  lucky  ones  "  — 
substituted  heavily:  "  Well  then!  All  right  then!  It's 
no  good  then!    Very  well  then!  " 

She  was  a  trifle  surprised  by  the  violent  action  with 
which  he  released  her  hands.  But  she  knew  his  moods 
(not  their  depth)  and  had  no  comment  to  make  on  his 
roughness.  "  Oh,  Phil,"  she  cried,  and  her  tone  matched 
her  face  in  its  mingling  of  gay  banter  and  of  tenderness, 
"  Oh,  Phil,  don't  twist  up  your  forehead  so  —  frowning 
like  that.  Phil,  don't!  "  And  when  he  made  no  an- 
swer but  with  working  face  just  stood  there  before  her, 
she  went  on:  "  You  know  that  I  hate  to  see  you  frown- 
ing so  horribly.  And  I  don't  see  why  you  should  come 
and  do  it  in  my  flat;  I'm  blessed  if  I  do!  " 

He  did  not  respond  to  the  gay  Httle  laugh  with  which 
she  poked  her  words  at  him.  He  had  come  to  her  for 
the  rest,  for  the  comfort,  he  had  felt  in  that  brief  mo- 
ment when  he  first  caught  at  her  hands.  Instead,  the 
laughter  in  her  eyes  informed  him  that  here,  here  also, 
was  not  to  be  found  what  day  and  night  he  sought. 
The  interview  must  be  ended,  and  he  must  get  away. 
He  was  in  these  days  always  fidgeting  to  end  a  conver- 
sation, however  eagerly  he  had  begun  it. 


6  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

It  must  be  ended  —  conventionally. 

"  Well,  I'm  busy,"  he  said.    "  I  must  be  going." 

"  Now,  Phil!  "  she  exclaimed,  and  there  was  in  her 
voice  just  a  trace  of  pleading.  "  Now,  Phil,  don't  be 
in  one  of  your  moods!  It's  not  kind  after  all  the  ages 
I've  never  seen  you."  A  settee  was  near  her,  and  she 
sat  down  and  indicated  the  place  beside  her.  "  Going! 
Why,  you've  scarcely  come!  Tell  me  what  you've 
been  doing.  Months  since  you've  been  near  me!  Of 
course,  I've  heard  about  you.  I'm  always  hearing 
your  name  or  seeing  it  in  the  papers.  Clever  Httle 
beast,  Phil!  I  hear  people  talking  about  The  Week 
Reviewed,  or  about  your  books;  and  I  say:  '  Oh,  I  know 
the  editor  well ' ;  or  '  He's  a  friend  of  mine  —  Philip 
Wriford,'  and  I  feel  rather  bucked  when  they  exclaim 
and  want  to  know  what  you're  like.  You  must  be  mak- 
ing pots  of  money,  Phil,  old  boy." 

He  remained  standing,  making  no  motion  to  accept 
the  place  beside  her.  *'  I'm  making  what  I  should  have 
thought  would  be  a  good  lot  once,"  he  said;  and  he 
added:  "You  ought  to  have  married  me,  Brida  — 
when  you  had  the  chance." 

Just  the  faintest  shadow  flickered  across  her  face. 
But  she  replied  with  a  little  wriggle  and  a  Uttle  laugh 
indicative  of  a  shuddering  at  her  escape.  "  It  would 
have  been  too  awful,"  she  said.  "  You,  with  your 
moods!    You're  getting  worse,  Phil,  you  are  really!  " 

He  had  seen  the  shadow.  Had  it  stayed,  he  had 
crossed  to  her,  caught  her  hands  again,  cried:  "  0  Brida, 
Brida!  "  and  in  that  shadow's  tenderness  have  found 
the  balm  which  in  these  days  he  craved  for,  craved  for, 
craved  for.  He  saw  it  pass  and  took  instead  the  mock 
of  her  Ught  tone  and  words.     "  Worse  —  yes,  I  know 


MR.  WRIFORD  7 

I'm  worse,"  he  said  violently.    "  You  don't  know  how 
bad  —  nor  any  one." 

"  Tell  me,  old  boy." 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell." 

"  You're  working  too  hard,  Phil." 

"  I'm  sick  of  hearing  that.    That's  all  rubbish." 

"Poor  old  boy!" 

She  saw  his  face  work  again;  but  "  It's  our  press 
night,"  was  all  he  said.  "We  go  to  press  to-night. 
I've  the  House  of  Commons'  debate  to  read  and  an 
article  to  write  —  two  articles.    I  must  go,  Brida." 

She  told  him:  "  Well,  you  won't  get  the  debate  yet. 
It's  much  too  early.  Do  sit  down,  Phil.  Here,  by  my 
side,  and  talk,  Phil,  do!  " 

He  shook  his  head  and  took  up  his  hat;  and  she  could 
see  how  his  hand  that  held  it  trembled.  He  was  at  the 
door  with  no  more  than  "  Good-bye  "  when  she  sprang  to 
her  feet  and  called  him  back:  "  At  least  shake  hands, 
rude  beast!  "  and  when  he  gave  his  hand,  she  held  it. 
"  What's  up,  old  boy?  " 

He  drew  his  hand  away.    "  Nothing,  Brida." 

"  Just  now  —  when  you  first  came  —  what  did  you 
mean  by  saying:  '  All  right  then  —  it's  no  good  then.' 
What  did  you  mean  by  that,  Phil?  " 

His  face,  while  she  waited  his  reply,  was  working  as 
though  it  mirrored  clumsy  w^orking  of  his  brain.  His 
words,  when  he  found  speech,  were  blurred  and  spas- 
modic, as  though  his  brain  that  threw  them  up  were  a 
machine  gone  askew  and  leaking  under  intense  internal 
stress,  where  it  should  have  delivered  in  an  amiable 
flow.  "  Why,  I  meant  that  it's  no  good,"  he  said,  "  no 
good  looking  for  what  I  can't  find.  I  don't  know  what 
it  is,  even.    Brida,  I  don't  even  know  what  it  is  that  I 


8  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

want.  Peace  —  rest  —  happiness  —  getting  back  to 
what  I  used  to  be.  I  don't  know.  I  can't  explain.  I 
can't  even  explain  to  myself  —  " 

"  Why,  old  boy?  " 

"  I  can  do  it  at  night.  Sometimes  I  can  get  near  it 
at  night.  Sometimes  I  lie  awake  at  night  and  call  my- 
self all  the  vile,  vile  names  I  can  think  of.  Go  through 
the  alphabet  and  find  a  name  for  what  I  am  with  every 
letter.  But  at  the  back  of  it  —  at  the  back  of  it  there's 
still  —  still  a  reservation,  still  an  excuse  for  myself. 
I  want  to  tell  some  one.  I  want  to  find  some  one  to 
tell  it  all  to  —  to  say  '  I'm  This  and  That  and  This  and 
That,  and  Oh!  for  God  Almighty's  sake  help  me  —  help 
me  — '  " 

She  knew  his  moods,  and  of  their  depth  more  at  this 
interview  than  ever  before,  and  yet  still  in  no  wise  fath- 
omed them.  He  stopped,  twisted  in  mind  and  in  face 
with  his  efforts,  and  she  (his  moods  unplumbed)  laughed, 
thinking  to  rally  him,  and  said:  "  Why,  no,  it's  no  good 
calUng  yourself  names  to  me,  Phil." 

He  broke  out  more  savagely  than  he  had  yet  spoken, 
and  he  had  been  violent  enough: 

"  That's  what  I'm  telling  you.  No  good  —  no  good! 
You'd  laugh.  You're  laughing  now.  Everybody  laughs. 
I'm  lucky!  —  so  successful!  —  so  happy!  —  no  cares!  — 
no  ties!  —  no  troubles!  Other  people  have  bad  times! 
—  others  are  ill !  —  breakdowns  and  God  knows  what, 
and  responsibilities,  and  burdens,  and  misfortunes! 
but  me!  —  I've  all   the  luck  —  I've  everything!  —  " 

When  she  could  stop  him,  she  said:  "  I  don't  laugh 
at  you,  Phil.    That's  not  fair." 

"  You  always  do.  I  thought  I'd  come  to  you  to-day 
to  see.    I  always  come  to  you  hoping.     But  I  always 


MR.  WRIFORD  9 

go  away  knowing  I'm  a  fool  to  have  troubled.  Well, 
I  won't  come  again.  I  always  say  that  to  myself.  Now 
I've  said  it  to  you.  Now  it's  fixed.  I  won't  come  back 
again.    It's  done  —  it's  over!  " 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his.    "  Now,  Phil!  " 

But  he  shook  off  her  touch.  "  You  don't  understand 
me.    That's  what  it  comes  to." 

"  Phil!  " 

"  No  one  does.    You  least  of  all." 

"  Phil,  you're  ill,  old  boy." 

"  Well,  laugh  over  that!  "  cried  Mr.  Wriford  and 
turned  with  a  shuffling  movement  of  his  feet;  and  she 
saw  him  blunder  against  the  door-post  as  though  he  had 
not  noticed  it;  and  stood  Hstening  while  he  went  heavily 
down  the  stairs;  and  heard  him  fumble  with  the  latch 
below  and  slam  the  outer  door  behind  him. 

II 

Now  you  shall  picture  this  Mr.  Wriford  —  thirty, 
youthful  of  face,  not  bad-looking,  clever,  successful, 
one  of  the  lucky  ones  —  walking  back  from  Brida's 
little  flat  in  Knightsbridge  to  the  office  of  The  Week 
Reviewed  off  Fleet  Street,  and  as  he  walked,  rehearsing 
every  passage  of  his  own  contribution  to  the  interview 
that  had  just  passed,  and  as  he  rehearsed  them,  abusing 
himself  in  every  Hne  of  it.  It  was  not  where  he  had  been 
rude  or  unkind  to  Brida  that  gave  him  distress.  There, 
on  the  contrary,  he  found  brief  gleams  of  satisfaction. 
There  he  had  held  his  own.  It  was  where  he  had  made 
a  fool  of  himself  and  exposed  himself  that  gnawed  him. 
It  was  where  she  had  laughed  at  him  that  he  was  stung. 
He  made  an  effort  to  distract  his  thoughts,  to  fix  them 


lo  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

on  the  work  to  which  he  was  proceeding,  to  attach  them 
anywhere  ("  Anj^^where,  anywhere,  any  infernal  where!  " 
cried  Mr.  Wriford  to  himself).  Useless.  They  rushed 
back.  "  From  here  to  that  pillar-box,"  cried  Mr.  Wri- 
ford inwardly,  "  I'll  fix  on  what  I'm  going  to  write  in 
my  first  leader."  He  was  not  ten  steps  in  the  direction 
when  he  was  writhing  again  at  having  made  a  fool  of 
himself  with  Brida.  It  was  always  so  in  these  days. 
"  I  never  exchange  words  with  a  soul,"  cried  Mr.  Wri- 
ford, "  not  even  with  a  cab-driver  —  "  He  was  switched 
off  on  the  word  to  recollection  of  a  fare-dispute  with  a 
cab-driver  on  the  previous  day.  He  was  plunged  back 
into  the  humiliation  he  had  suffered  himself  to  endure 
by  not  taking  a  strong  line  with  the  man.  It  had  occu- 
pied him,  gnawing,  gnawing  at  him  right  up  to  this 
afternoon  with  Brida,  when  new  mortification,  new 
example  of  having  been  a  weak  fool,  of  having  been 
worsted  in  an  encounter,  had  come  to  take  its  place. 

So  there  was  Mr.  Wriford  —  one  of  the  lucky  ones  — 
back  with  this  old  gnawing  again;  and,  realising  the 
swift  transition  from  one  to  the  other,  able  to  complete 
his  broken  sentence  with  a  bitter  laugh  at  himself  for 
the  instance  that  had  come  to  illustrate  it. 

"  I  never  exchange  a  word  with  a  soul,  not  even  with 
a  cab-driver,"  cried  Mr.  Wriford,  "  but  I  show  what  a 
weak  fool  I  am,  and  then  brood  over  it,  brood  over  it, 
until  the  next  thing  comes  along  to  take  its  place!  " 
Whereupon,  and  with  which,  another  next  thing  came 
immediately  in  further  proof  and  in  further  assault 
upon  the  thin  film  of  Mr.  Wriford 's  self-possession  that 
was  in  these  days  left  to  him.  In  form,  this  came,  of  a 
cyclist  carrying  a  bundle  of  newspapers  upon  his  back 
and  travelling  at  the  hazard  and  speed  and  with  the 


MR.  WRIFORD  ii 

dexterity  that  belong  to  his  calling.  Mr.  Wriford  stepped 
off  the  pavement  to  cross  the  road,  stepped  in  front  of 
this  gentleman,  caused  him  to  execute  a  prodigious 
swerve  to  avoid  collision,  ejaculated  very  genuinely  a 
"Sorry  —  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  and  was  addressed  in 
raucous  bawl  of  obscene  abuse  that  added  new  terms  to 
the  names  which,  as  he  had  told  Brida,  he  often  lay 
awake  at  night  and  called  himself. 

Mr.  Wriford  gained  the  other  side  of  the  road  badly 
jarred  as  to  his  nerves  but  conscious  only  of  this  fresh 
outrage  to  his  sensibilities.  Was  it  that  he  looked  a 
fool  that  he  was  treated  with  such  contempt?  Yes, 
that  was  it!  Would  that  coarse  brute  have  dared  abuse 
in  that  way  a  man  who  looked  as  if  he  could  hold  his 
own?  No,  not  he!  Would  a  man  who  was  a  man  and 
not  a  soft,  contemptible  beast  have  cried  "  Sorry.  I'm 
awfully  sorry  "  ?  No,  no!  A  man  who  was  a  man  had 
damned  the  fellow's  eyes,  shouted  him  down,  threatened 
him  for  his  blundering  carelessness.  He  was  hateful. 
He  was  vile.  Now  this  —  now  this  indignity,  this  new 
exhibition  of  his  weakness,  was  going  to  rankle,  gnaw 
him,  gnaw  him.  There  surged  over  Mr.  Wriford  again, 
standing  on  the  kerb,  the  desire  to  wave  his  arms  and 
cry  aloud,  as  he  had  desired  to  wave  and  cry  with  Brida 
a  few  minutes  before:  "Oh!  I  say!  I  say!  I  say!  This 
can't  go  on!  This  can't  go  on!  This  has  got  to  stop! 
This  has  got  to  stop!  "  Habit  checked  the  impulse. 
People  were  passing.  People  were  staring  at  him.  They 
had  seen  the  incident,  perhaps.  They  had  witnessed 
his  humiliation  and  were  laughing  at  him.  There  was 
wrung  out  of  Mr.  Wriford's  lips  a  bitter  cry,  a  groan, 
that  was  articulate  sound  of  his  inward  agony  at  him- 
self.   He  turned  in  his  own  direction  and  began  a  swift 


12  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

walk  that  was  the  slowest  pace  to  which  habit  could 
control  the  desire  that  consumed  him  to  run,  to  run  — 
by  running  to  escape  his  thoughts,  by  running  to  shake 
off  the  inward  mocking  that  mocked  him  as  though 
with  mocking  all  the  street  resounded.  It  appeared 
indeed  to  Mr.  Wriford,  as  often  in  these  days  it  ap- 
peared, that  passers-by  looked  at  him  longer  than  com- 
monly one  meets  a  casual  glance,  and  had  in  their  eyes 
a  grin  as  though  they  knew  him  for  what  he  was  and 
needs  must  grin  at  the  sight  of  it.  Mr.  Wriford  often 
turned  to  look  after  such  folk  to  see  if  they  were  turned 
to  laugh  at  him.  He  had  not  now  gone  a  dozen  furious 
paces,  yet  twice  had  wavered  beneath  glances  directed 
at  him,  when  there  greeted  him  cheerily  with  "  Hullo, 
Wriford!  How  goes  it?  "  a  healthy-looking  gentleman 
who  stopped  before  him  and  caused  him  to  halt. 

HI 

Mr.  Wriford,  desperate  to  be  alone  and  to  run,  to 
run,  said:  ''  Hullo,  I'm  late  getting  to  the  office.  I'm 
in  a  tearing  hurry,"  and  stared  at  the  man,  aware  of 
another  frequent  symptom  of  these  days:  he  could 
not  recollect  his  name !  He  knew  the  man  well.  Scarcely 
a  day  passed  but  Mr.  Wriford  saw  him.  This  was  the 
literary  editor  of  The  Intelligence,  the  great  daily  news- 
paper with  which  The  Week  Reviewed  was  connected 
and  in  whose  office  it  was  housed.  A  nice  man,  and  of 
congenial  tastes;  but  a  man  whom  at  that  moment  Mr. 
Wriford  felt  himself  hating  venomously,  and  while  he 
struggled,  struggled  for  his  name,  experienced  the  con- 
scious wish  that  the  man  might  fall  down  dead  and  so  let 
him  be  free,  and  so  close  those  eyes  of  his  that  seemed  to 


MR.  WRIFORD  13 

Mr.  Wriford  to  be  looking  right  inside  him  and  to  be  grin- 
ning at  what  they  saw.  And  Mr.  Wriford  found  him- 
self gone  miles  adrift  among  pictures  of  the  scenes  that 
would  occur  if  the  man  did  suddenly  drop  dead;  found 
himself  shaping  the  sentences  that  he  would  speak  to 
the  poHceman  who  wo  aid  come  up,  shaping  the  words 
with  which,  as  he  supposed  would  be  his  duty,  he  would 
go  and  break  the  news  to  the  man's  wife,  whom  he  knew 
well,  and  whose  shocked  grief  he  found  himself  pictur- 
ing—  but  whose  name!  Mr.  Wriford  came  back  to 
the  original  horror,  to  the  fact  of  standing  before  this 
familiar  —  daily  familiar  —  friend  and  having  not  the 
remotest  glimmering  of  what  his  name  might  be.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  off  to-morrow  for  a  month's  holiday,"  the  man 
was  saying.  "  A  rest  cure.  I've  been  needing  it,  my 
doctor  says.    You're  looking  fit,  Wriford." 

Habit  helped  Mr.  Wriford  to  work  up  a  smile.  Just 
what  he  had  been  saying  to  Brida:  "  I'm  so  lucky! 
Other  people  have  bad  times!  —  others  are  ill!  —  break- 
downs and  God  knows  what !  —  but  me !  —  I've  all  the 
luck!  "  Mr.  Wriford  worked  up  a  smile.  "  Oh,  good 
Lord,  yes.  I'm  always  fit.  Sorry  you're  bad."  What 
was  his  name?  —  his  name!  his  name! 

And  the  man  went  on:  "  You  are  so!  —  lucky  beggar! 
When's  your  new  book  coming  out?  What,  must  you 
cut?  Well,  I'll  see  you  again  before  I  go.  I'm  looking 
in  at  the  office  to-night.  I've  left  you  a  revised  proof  of 
that  article  of  mine.  That  was  a  good  suggestion  of 
yours.    One  of  the  bright  ones,  you!    So  long!  " 

Mr.  Wriford  —  one  of  the  bright  ones  —  shook  hands 
with  him;  and  knew  as  he  did  so,  and  from  the  man's 
shght  surprise,  that  it  was  a  stupid  thing  to  do  with  a 
man  he  met  every  day  of  his  life;  and  leaving  him,  be- 


14  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

came  for  some  moments  occupied  with  this  new  example 
of  his  stupidity;  and  then  back  to  the  distress  that  he 
could  not,  could  not  recollect  his  name;  and  furiously, 
then,  to  the  agony  of  the  cyclist  humiliation;  and  in  all 
the  chaos  of  it  got  to  a  quiet  street,  and,  hurrying  at 
frantic  pace,  frantically  at  last  did  cry  aloud:  "  Oh,  I 
say!  I  say!  I  say!  I  say!  This  can't  go  on.  This  has 
got  to  stop!  This  has  got  to  stop!  "  and  found  himself 
somehow  arrived  at  the  vast  building  of  The  Intelligence, 
and  at  the  sight  by  habit  called  upon  himself  and  steadied 
himself  to  enter. 

IV 

Called  upon  himself.  .  .  .  Steadied  himself.  .  .  . 
He  would  encounter  here  men  whom  he  knew.  .  .  . 
He  must  not  let  them  see.  .  .  .  Called  upon  himself 
and  passed  up  the  stairs  towards  the  landing  that  held 
the  offices  of  his  paper.  There  was  a  lift,  but  he  did  not 
use  it.  It  would  have  entailed  exchange  of  greeting 
with  the  Uft-boy,  and  in  these  days  Mr.  Wriford  had 
come  to  the  pitch  of  shrinking  from  even  the  amount  of 
conversation  which  that  would  have  entailed.  For 
the  same  reason  he  paused  a  full  three  minutes  on  his 
landing  before  turning  along  the  corridor  that  approached 
his  office.  There  were  bantering  voices  which  he  recog- 
nised for  those  of  friends,  and  he  waited  till  the  group 
dispersed  and  doors  slammed.  He  hated  meeting  people, 
shrank  from  eyes  that  looked,  not  at  him,  but,  as  he 
felt,  into  him,  and,  as  he  believed,  had  a  grin  in  the  tail 
of  them. 

Doors  slammed.  Silence  in  the  corridor.  Mr.  Wri- 
ford went  swiftly  to  his  room.    The  table  was  littered 


MR.  WRIFORD  15 

with  proofs  and  letters.  Mr.  Wriford  sat  down  heavily 
in  his  chair  and  took  up  the  office  telephone.  There 
was  one  thing  to  straighten  up  before  he  got  to  work, 
and  he  spoke  to  the  voice  that  answered  him:  "Do  you 
know  if  the  Hterary  editor  is  in  his  room?  The  literary 
editor  —  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Haig,  sir,"  said  the  voice.  "  No,  sir,  Mr.  Haig 
won't  be  back  till  late.  He  left  word  that  he'd  put  his 
proof  on  your  table,  sir." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Get  through  to  the 
sub-editors'  room  and  ask  Mr.  Hatchard  if  I  may  have 
the  Commons'  debate  report." 

Then  Mr.  Wriford  put  down  the  telephone  and  leaned 
his  head  on  his  hands.  "  Haig!  Of  course  that  was  his 
name!    Oh,  I  say!    I  say!    I  say!" 


CHAPTER  II 

YOUNG   WRIFORD 


Come  back  with  Mr.  Wriford  a  little.  Come  back 
with  him  a  little  to  scenes  where  often  his  mind,  not 
wanders,  but  hunts  —  hunts  desperately,  as  hunts  for 
safety,  running  in  panic  to  and  fro,  one  trapped  by  the 
sea  on  whom  the  tide  advances.  There  are  nights  — 
not  occasional  nights,  but  night  after  night,  night  after 
night  —  when  Mr.  Wriford  cannot  sleep  and  when,  in 
madness  against  the  sleep  that  will  not  come,  he  visions 
sleep  as  some  actual  presence  that  is  in  his  room  mock- 
ing him,  and  springs  from  his  bed  to  grapple  it  and  seize 
it  and  drag  it  to  his  pillow.  There  is  a  moment  then  — 
or  longer,  he  does  not  know  how  long  —  of  dreadful  loss 
of  identity,  in  which  in  the  darkness  Mr.  Wriford  floun- 
ders and  smashes  about  his  room,  thinking  he  wrestles 
with  sleep:  and  then  he  reahses,  and  trembhng  gets 
back  to  bed,  and  cries  aloud  to  know  how  in  God's 
name  to  get  out  of  this  pass  to  which  he  has  come,  and 
how  in  pity's  name  he  has  come  to  it. 

Come  back  with  him  a  little.  Look  how  his  life  as  he 
hunts  through  it  falls  into  periods.  Look  how  these 
bring  him  from  Young  Wriford  that  he  was  —  Young 
Wriford  fresh,  ardent,  keen,  happy,  to  whom  across  the 
years  he  stretches  trembling  hands  —  to  this  Mr.  Wri- 
ford, one  of  the  lucky  ones,  that  he  has  become. 

i6 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  17 


II 

Here  is  Young  Wriford  of  ten  years  before  who  has 
just  taken  the  tremendous  plunge  into  what  he  calls 
literature.  Here  he  is,  just  battling  ardently  with  its 
fearful  hopes  and  hazards  when  there  comes  to  him 
news  of  Bill  and  Freda,  his  brother  and  sister-in-law, 
killed  by  sudden  accident  in  Canada  where  with  their 
children  and  Alice,  Freda's  elder  sister,  they  had  made 
their  home.  Here  he  is  at  the  Liverpool  docks,  meet- 
ing Alice  and  the  three  little  boys  to  take  them  to  her 
mother's  house  in  Surbiton.  He  is  the  only  surviving 
near  relative  of  Bill's  family,  and  here  he  is,  for  old 
Bill's  sake,  with  every  impulse  concentrated  on  play- 
ing the  game  by  old  Bill's  poor  little  kids  and  by  Alice 
who,  unhappy  at  home,  has  always  lived  with  them 
and  been  their  "  deputy- mother,"  and  is  now,  as  she 
says,  their  own  mother:  here  is  Alice,  with  Harold 
aged  nine,  Dicky  aged  eight,  and  Freddie  aged  seven; 
Alice,  who  dreads  coming  to  her  home,  who  tells  Young 
Wriford  in  the  train: 

"  I'm  not  crying  for  Freda  and  Bill.  I  can't  —  I 
simply  can't  realise  that  even  yet.  It's  not  them, 
Philip.  It's  the  future  I'm  thinking  of.  Phil,  what's 
going  to  happen  to  my  darlings?  They've  got  nothing 
—  nothing.  Father's  got  four  hundred  a  year  —  less; 
and  I  dread  that.  I  tell  you  I  dread  meeting  mother 
and  father  more  than  anything.  Mother  means  to  be 
kind  —  it's  kind  of  her  to  take  the  children  for  Freda's 
sake;  but  you  know  what  she  is  and  what  father  is. 
And  I've  nothing  —  nothing!  " 


i8  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Young  Wriford  knows  well  enough  what  Mrs.  Filmer 
is.  Dragon  Mrs.  Filmer  he  has  privately  called  her  to 
old  Bill  when  writing  of  duty  calls  paid  to  the  stuffy 
little  house  at  Surbiton,  where  the  Dragon  dragons  it 
over  her  establishment  and  over  Mr.  Filmer,  who  has 
"  retired  "  from  business  and  who  calls  himself  an  "  in- 
ventor." Young  Wriford  knows,  and  he  has  thought 
it  all  out,  and  he  has  had  an  amazing  piece  of  success 
only  a  fortnight  before,  and  he  answers  Alice  bravely: 
"  Look  here,  old  girl,  I've  simply  colossal  news  for  you. 
You've  not  got  to  worry  about  all  that  a  damn  —  sorry, 
Alice,  but  not  a  damn,  really.  You  know  I've  chucked 
the  office  and  gone  in  for  literature?  Well,  what  do  you 
think?  Whatever  do  you  think?  I'm  dashed  if  I  haven't 
got  a  place  on  the  staff  of  Camber's!  Camber's,  mind 
you !  You  know  —  Gamber^s  Magazine  and  Camber's 
Weekly  and  skits  of  other  papers.  They'd  been  accept- 
ing stuff  of  mine,  and  they  wrote  and  asked  me  to  call, 
and  —  well,  I'm  on  the  staff!  I've  got  a  roll-top  desk 
of  my  own  and  no  end  of  an  important  position  and  — 
what  do  you  think?  —  three  guineas  a  week!  Well, 
this  is  how  it  stands;  I've  figured  it  all  out.  I  can  live 
like  a  prince  on  twenty-five  bob  a  week,  and  you're 
going  to  have  the  other  one  pound  eighteen.  No,  it's 
no  good  saying  you  won't.  You've  got  to.  Cood  Lord, 
it's  for  old  Bill  I'm  doing  it.  Well,  look  at  that  now! 
Nothing!  Why,  you  can  tell  Mrs.  Filmer  you've  got 
practically  a  hundred  a  year!  Ninety-eight  pounds 
sixteen.  That's  not  bad,  is  it?  and  twice  as  much  before 
long.  I  tell  you  I'm  going  to  make  a  fortune  at  this. 
I  simply  love  the  work,  you  know.  No,  don't  call  it 
generous,  old  girl,  or  any  rot  hke  that.  It's  not  gener- 
ous.    I  don't  want  the  money.     I  mean,  I  don't  care 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  19 

for  anything  except  the  work.    There,  now  you  feel  bet- 
ter, don't  you?    It's  fixed.    I  tell  you  it's  fixed." 

Ill 

Here  is  Young  Wriford  with  this  fixed,  and  with  it 
working,  as  he  believes,  splendidly.  Here  he  is  living 
in  a  bed-sitting-room  at  Battersea,  and  revelling  day 
and  night  and  always  in  the  thrill  of  being  what  he 
calls  a  literary  man,  and  in  the  pride  and  glory  of  being 
on  the  staff  at  Camber's.  He  loves  the  work.  He  cares 
for  nothing  else  but  the  work.  That  is  why  the  shrewd 
men  at  Camber's  spotted  him  and  brought  him  in  and 
shoved  him  into  Camber's  machine;  and  that  is  why  he 
never  breaks  or  crumples  but  springs  and  comes  again 
when  the  hammers,  the  furnaces,  and  the  grindstones 
of  Camber's  machine  work  him  and  rattle  him  and 
mould  him. 

A  Mr.  Occshott  controls  Camber's  machine.  Mr. 
Occshott  in  appearance  and  in  tastes  is  much  more  like 
a  cricket  professional  than  Young  Wriford's  early  ideas 
of  an  editor.  Literary  young  men  on  Camber's  staff 
call  Mr.  Occshott  a  soulless  ox  and  rave  aloud  against 
him,  and  being  found  worthless  by  him,  are  flung  rav- 
ing out  of  Camber's  machine,  which  he  relentlessly 
drives.  In  Young  Wriford,  Mr.  Occshott  tells  himself 
that  he  has  found  a  real  red-hot  'un,  and  for  the  ultimate 
benefit  of  Camber's  he  puts  the  red-hot  'un  through 
the  machine  at  all  its  fiercest;  sighs  and  groans  at  Young 
Wriford,  and  checks  him  here  and  checks  him  there, 
and  badgers  him  and  drives  him  all  the  time  —  slashes 
his  manuscripts  to  pieces;  comes  down  with  contemptu- 
ous blue  pencil  and  a  cutting  sneer  whenever  in  them 


20  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Young  Wriford  gets  away  from  facts  and  tries  a 
flight  of  fancy;  hunts  for  missed  errors  through  proofs 
that  Young  Wriford  has  read,  and  finds  them  and  sends 
for  Young  Wriford,  and  asks  if  it  is  his  eyesight  or  his 
education  that  is  at  fault,  and  if  it  is  of  the  faintest  use 
to  hope  that  he  can  ever  be  trusted  to  pass  a  proof  for 
himself;  puts  Young  Wriford  on  to  "  making-up  "  pages 
of  Camber's  illustrated  periodicals  for  press,  and  pulls 
them  all  to  pieces  after  they  are  done,  and  sends  Young 
Wriford  himself  to  face  the  infuriated  printer  and  to 
suffer  dismay  and  mortification  in  all  his  soul  as  he  hears 
the  printer  say:  "  Well,  that's  the  Hmit!  Take  my  oath, 
that's  the  limit!  'Bout  time,  Mr,  Wriford,  you  give  my 
compliments  to  Mr.  Occshott  and  tell  him  I  wish  to 
Cod  Almighty  he'd  put  any  gentleman  on  to  make  up 
the  pages  except  you.  It's  waste  labour  —  it's  sheer 
waste  labour  —  doing  anything  you  tell  us.  Take  my 
oath  it  is." 

Young  Wriford  assures  himself  that  he  hates  Mr. 
Occshott,  but  steadily  learns,  steadily  benefits;  finds 
that  he  really  Ukes  Mr.  Occshott  and  is  liked  by  him; 
steadily,  ardently  sticks  to  it  —  earns  his  reward. 

"  W^ell,  there  it  is,"  says  Mr.  Occshott  one  day,  throw- 
ing aside  the  manuscript  over  which  Young  Wriford 
had  taken  infinite  pains  only  to  have  it  horribly  man- 
gled. "  There  it  is.  Have  another  shot  at  it,  Wriford. 
And,  by  the  way,  you're  not  doing  badly  —  not  badly. 
You're  awfully  careless,  you  know,  but  I  think  you're 
picking  it  up.  We're  starring  a  new  magazine,  a  kind 
of  popular  monthly  review,  and  I'm  going  to  put  you  in 
nominal  charge  of  it  —  charge  of  the  make-up  and  see- 
ing to  press  and  all  that.  And  your  salary  —  you've 
been  here  six  months,  haven't  you?     Three  guineas, 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  21 

you're  getting?  Well,  it'll  be  four  now.  Make  a  real 
effort  with  this  new  idea,  Wriford.  I'll  tell  you  more 
about  it  to-morrow.  A  real  effort  —  you  really  must, 
you  know.    Well,  there  it  is." 

IV 

Here  is  Young  Wriford  not  quite  so  youthful  as  a  few 
months  before.  He  has  lost  his  keen  interest  in  games 
and  recreation.  He  thinks  nothing  but  work,  breathes 
nothing  but  work;  most  significant  symptom  of  all, 
sometimes  dreams  work  or  lies  awake  at  night  a  Httle 
because  his  mind  is  occupied  with  work.  That  in  itself, 
though,  is  nothing:  he  Ukes  it,  he  relishes  every  mo- 
ment of  it.  What  accounts  more  directly  for  the  slight 
loss  of  youthfulness,  what  increasingly  interferes  with 
his  rehsh  of  his  work,  is  what  comes  up  from  the  Filmer 
household  at  Surbiton  in  form  of  frequent  letters  from 
Alice;  is  what  greets  him  there  when  he  fulfils  AUce's 
entreaties  by  giving  up  his  every  week-end  to  spending 
it  as  Dragon  Mrs.  Filmer 's  guest. 

The  letters  begin  to  worry  him,  to  get  on  his  nerves, 
to  give  him  for  some  reason  that  he  cannot  quite  deter- 
mine a  harassing  feeling  of  self-reproach.  They  are 
inordinately  long;  they  consist  from  beginning  to  end 
of  a  recital  of  passages-at-arms  between  Alice  and  her 
parents;  they  seem  to  hint,  when  in  replies  to  them  he 
tries  to  reason  away  the  troubles,  that  it  is  all  very  well 
for  Young  Wriford,  who  is  out  of  it  all  and  free  and  com- 
fortable and  happy,  but  that  if  he  were  here  — ! 

"  Well,  but  what  more  can  I  do  than  I  am  doing?  " 
Young  Wriford  cries  aloud  to  himself  on  receipt  of  such 
a  letter;  and  thenceforward  that  question  and  alternate 


22  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

fits  of  impatience  and  of  self-reproach  over  it,  and  letters 
expressive  first  of  one  frame  of  mind  and  then,  in  re- 
morse, of  the  other  —  thenceforward  these  occupy  more 
and  more  of  his  thoughts,  and  more  and  more  mix  with 
his  work  and  disturb  his  peace  of  mind.  Why  is  all  this 
put  upon  him?   Why  can't  he  be  left  alone? 

V 

Here  is  Young  Wriford  in  love.  She  is  eighteen.  Her 
name  is  Brida.  She  is  working  for  the  stage  at  a  school 
of  dramatic  art  quite  close  to  Gamber's.  He  gets  to 
know  her  through  a  friend  at  Gamber's  whose  sister  is 
also  at  the  school.  Young  Wriford  and  Brida  happen  to 
lunch  every  day  —  meeting  without  arrangement  —  at 
the  same  tea-shop  off  the  Strand.  She  leaves  her  school 
at  the  same  hour  he  leaves  Gamber's  in  the  evening, 
and  they  happen  to  meet  every  evening  —  without  ar- 
rangement —  and  he  walks  home  with  her  across  St. 
James's  Park  to  a  Belgravia  flat  where  she  lives  with 
her  married  sister.  Young  Wriford  thinks  of  her  face, 
day  and  night,  as  like  a  flower  —  radiant  and  fresh  and 
fragrant  as  a  flower  at  dawn;  and  of  her  spirit  as  a  flower 
—  gay  as  a  posy,  fragrant  as  apple-blossom,  fresh  as  a 
rose,  a  rose! 

And  so  one  Friday  evening  as  they  cross  the  Park 
together,  when  suddenly  she  challenges  his  unusual 
silence  with:  "  I  say,  you're  jolly  glum  to-night," 
he  replies  with  a  plump:  "  I'm  going  to  call  you 
Brida." 

"Oh,  goodness!  "  says  Brida  and  begins  to  walk  very 
fast. 

"  Do  you  mind?  " 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  23 

She  shakes  her  head. 

"  Don't  let's  hurry.    Stop  here  a  moment." 

It  is  dusk.  It  is  October.  There  is  no  one  near  them. 
He  begins  to  speak.  His  eyes  tell  her  what  he  can 
scarcely  say:  her  eyes  and  that  which  tides  in  deepest 
colour  across  her  face  inform  him  what  her  answer  is. 
He  takes  her  in  his  arms.  He  tells  her:  "  I  love 
you,  darhng.  Brida,  I  love  you."  She  whispers: 
"PhU!" 

He  goes  home  exalted  in  his  every  pulse  by  what  he 
has  drunk  from  her  hps:  plumed,  armed,  caparisoned  by 
that  ethereal  draught  for  any  marvels,  challenging  the 
future  to  bring  out  its  costliest,  mightiest,  bravest,  best 
—  he'd  have  it,  he'd  wrest  it  for  his  sweet,  his  darling! 
He  goes  home  —  and  there  is  Alice  waiting  for  him. 
Can't  he,  oh,  can't  he  come  down  to  Surbiton  to-night, 
Friday,  instead  of  waiting  till  to-morrow?  She  simply 
cannot  bear  it  down  there  without  him.  It's  all  right 
when  he  is  there.  When  she's  alone  with  her  mother, 
her  mother  goes  on  and  on  and  on  about  the  expenses, 
and  about  the  children,  and  seems  to  throw  the  blame 
on  Bill,  and  she  answers  back,  and  her  father  joins  in, 
and  there  they  are  —  at  it!  There's  been  a  worse 
scene  than  ever  to-day.  She  can't  face  meeting  them 
at  supper  without  Phil.  "  Phil,  you'll  come,  won't 
you?  " 

Here  is  Young  Wriford  twisting  his  hands  and  twisting 
his  brows,  as  often  in  later  years  he  comes  to  twist  them. 
He  had  planned  to  spend  all  to-morrow  and  Sunday  with 
Brida  —  not  go  to  Surbiton  at  all  this  week-end.  Now 
he  must  go  to-night.  Why?  Why  on  earth  should  this 
kind  of  thing  be  put  on  him?  He  tries  to  explain  to 
AHce  that  he  cannot  come  —  either  to-day  or  to-morrow. 


24  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

She  cries.  He  lets  her  cry  and  lets  her  go  —  doing  his 
best  to  make  her  think  him  not  wilfully  unkind.  Here 
he  is  left  alone  in  torment  of  self-reproach  and  of  anger 
at  the  position  he  is  placed  in.  Here  he  is  with  the  self- 
reproach  mastering  him,  and  writing  excuses  to  Brida, 
and  hurrying  to  catch  a  train  that  will  get  him  down  to 
Surbiton  in  time  for  supper.  Here  is  Dragon  Mrs.  Fil- 
mer  greeting  him  with:  "  Well,  this  is  unexpected! 
You  couldn't  of  course  have  sent  a  line  saying  you  were 
coming  to-night  instead  of  to-morrow!  Oh,  no,  I  mustn't 
expect  that!  My  convenience  goes  for  nothing  in  my 
own  house  nowadays.  I  call  it  rather  hard  on  me." 
Here  is  Mr.  Filmer,  with  his  face  exactly  Hke  a  sheep, 
who  replies  at  supper  when  Young  Wriford  lets  out  that 
he  has  been  to  a  theatre-gallery  during  the  week:  "  Well, 
I  must  say  some  people  are  very  lucky  to  be  able  to 
afford  such  things.  I'm  afraid  they  don't  come  our 
way.  We  have  a  good  many  mouths  to  feed  in  this 
household,  haven't  we,  Alice,  h'm,  ha?  " 

Here  is  Young  Wriford  in  bed,  pitying  himself,  re- 
proaching himself,  thinking  of  Brida,  thinking  of  the 
Filmers,  thinking  of  old  Bill,  thinking  of  AHce,  thinking 
of  his  work  .  .  .  pit>dng  himself;  hating  himself  for 
doing  it;  in  a  tangle;  in  a  torment.  .  .  . 

VI 

Here  is  Young  Wriford  beginning  to  chafe  at  Cam- 
ber's. Here  he  is  beginning  to  find  himself  —  wanting 
to  do  better  work  than  the  heavy  hand  of  Mr.  Occshott 
will  admit  to  the  popular  pages  of  Gamber  periodicals; 
and  beginning  to  lose  himself  —  feeling  the  effect  of 
many    different    strains;     growing    what    Brida    calls 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  25 

"  nervy  " ;  slowly  changing  from  ardent  Young  Wriford 
to  "  nervy  "  Mr.  Wriford. 

The  different  strains  all  clash.  There  is  no  rest  be- 
tween them  nor  rehef  in  any  one  of  them.  They  all  in- 
volve "  scenes  "  —  scenes  with  Brida,  who  has  left  the 
dramatic  school  and  is  on  the  London  stage,  who  thinks 
that  if  Young  Wriford  really  cared  tuppence  about  her 
he  would  give  up  an  occasional  Sunday  to  her  —  but 
no,  he  spends  them  all  at  Surbiton  and  when  he  does 
come  near  her  is  "  nervy  "  and  seems  to  expect  her  to  be 
sentimental  and  sorry  for  him;  scenes  with  the  Filmers 
and  even  with  Alice  because  now  when  he  comes  down 
to  them  he  doesn't,  as  they  tell  him,  "  seem  to  think  of 
their  dull  lives  "  but  wants  to  shut  himself  up  and  work 
at  the  novel  or  whatever  it  is  that  he  is  writing;  scenes 
with  Mr.  Occshott  when  he  brings  Mr.  Occshott  the 
"  better  work  "  that  he  tries  to  do  during  the  week-ends 
and  at  night  and  is  told  that  he  is  wasting  his  time  doing 
that  sort  of  thing. 

Is  he  wasting  his  time?  Yes,  he  is  wasting  it  at  Cam- 
ber's, he  tells  himself.  He  can  do  better  work.  He 
wants  to  do  better  work.  No  scope  for  it  at  Camber's, 
and  one  day  he  has  it  out  with  Mr.  Occshott.  Mr. 
Occshott  hands  back  to  him,  kindly  but  rather  vexedly, 
a  series  of  short  stories  which  is  of  the  "  better  work  " 
he  feels  he  can  do.  Young  Wriford  sends  the  stories  to 
a  rival  magazine  of  considerably  higher  standard  than 
Camber's,  purposely  putting  upon  them  what  seems  to 
him  an  outrageous  price.    They  are  accepted. 

That  settles  it.  Young  Wriford  goes  to  Mr.  Occshott. 
"  I'm  sorry,  sir  —  awfully  sorry.  I've  been  very  happy 
here.  You've  been  awfully  good  to  me.  But  I  want  to 
do  bet —  other  work.    I'm  going  to  resign." 


26  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

Mr.  Occshott  is  extraordinarily  kind.  Young  Wriford 
finds  himself  quite  affected  by  all  that  Mr.  Occshott 
says,  Mr.  Occshott  is  not  going  to  let  Camber's  lose 
Young  Wriford  at  any  price.  "  Is  it  money?  "  he  asks 
at  last. 

"  Yes,  it's  money  —  partly,"  Young  Wriford  tells 
him.  "  But  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  tr}dng  to 
bounce  a  rise  out  of  you." 

"  My  dear  chap,  of  course  I  don't  think  so,"  says  Mr. 
Occshott.  "  You're  getting  five  pounds  a  week.  What's 
your  idea?  " 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  be  making  four  hundred  a  year," 
says  Wriford. 

"  So  do  I,"  says  Mr.  Occshott  and  laughs.  "  All 
right.    You  are.    Is  that  all  right?  " 

Young  Wriford  is  overwhelmed.  He  had  never  ex- 
pected this.  He  hesitates.  He  almost  agrees.  But  it 
is  only,  as  he  had  said,  "  partly  "  a  question  of  money. 
It  is  the  better  work  that  really  he  wants.  It  is  the 
constant  chafing  against  the  Camber  limitations  that 
really  actuates  him.  He  knows  what  it  will  be  if  he 
stays  on.  He  is  quite  confident  of  himself  if  he  resists 
this  temptation  and  leaves.  He  says:  "  No.  It's 
awfully  good  of  you  —  awfully  good.  But  it's  not  only 
the  question  of  money  ";  and  then  he  fires  at  Mr. 
Occshott  a  bombshell  which  blows  Mr.  Occshott  to 
blazes. 

"  I'm  writing  a  novel,"  says  Young  Wriford. 

"  Oh,  my  Cod!  "  says  Mr.  Occshott  and  covers  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

There  is  no  room  in  any  well-regulated  popular  peri- 
odical office  for  a  young  man  who  is  writing  a  novel. 
It  is  over.    It  is  done.    Cood-bye  to  Camber's! 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  27 


VII 


And  immediately  the  catastrophe,  the  crash;  the 
springing  upon  Young  Wriford  of  that  which  finally  and 
definitely  is  to  catch  him  and  hunt  him  and  drive  him 
from  the  Young  Wriford  that  he  is  to  the  Mr.  Wriford 
that  he  is  to  be;  the  scene  that  follows  when  he  tells 
Alice  and  the  Filmers  what  he  has  done. 

He  tells  them  enthusiastically.  In  this  moment  of  his 
first  release  from  Gamber's  to  pursue  the  better  work 
that  he  has  planned,  he  forgets  the  depression  that  al- 
ways settles  upon  him  in  the  Surbiton  establishment, 
and  speaks  out  of  the  ardour  and  zest  of  successes  soon 
to  be  won  that,  apart  from  the  joy  of  telling  it  all  to 
some  one,  makes  him  more  than  ever  grudge  this  week- 
end visit  when  work  is  impossible.  He  finishes  and  then 
for  the  first  time  notices  the  look  upon  the  faces  of  his 
listeners.  He  finishes,  and  there  is  silence,  and  he  stares 
from  one  to  the  other  and  has  sudden  foreboding  at 
what  he  sees  but  no  foreboding  of  that  which  comes  to 
pass. 

Alice  is  first  to  speak.  "  Oh,  Phil,"  says  Alice  — 
trembling  voice  and  trembling  Hps.  "  Oh,  Phil!  Left 
Gamber's!" 

Then  Mr.  Filmer.  "  Well,  really!  "  says  Mr.  Filmer. 
"Well,  really  — h'm,  ha!" 

Then  Mrs.  Filmer.  "  This  I  did  not  expect.  This  I 
refuse  to  beheve.  Left  Gamber's!  I  cannot  believe 
anything  so  hard  on  me  as  that.    I  cannot." 

Young  Wriford  manages  to  say:  "  Well,  why  not?  " 
and  at  once  there  is  released  upon  him  by  Mr.  and  Mrs. 


28  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Filmer  the  torrent  that  seems  to  him  to  last  for  hours 
and  hours. 

Why  not!  Is  he  aware  that  they  were  awaiting  his 
arrival  this  very  week-end  to  tell  him  what  it  had  be- 
come useless  to  suppose  he  would  ever  see  for  himself? 
Why  not!  Does  he  realise  that  the  expenses  of  feeding 
and  clothing  and  above  all  of  educating  Bill's  children 
are  increasing  beyond  endurance  month  by  month  as 
they  grow  up?  Why  not!  Has  he  ever  taken  the 
trouble  to  look  at  the  boys'  clothes,  at  their  boots,  and 
to  realise  how  his  brother's  children  have  to  be  dressed 
in  rags  while  he  Uves  in  luxury  in  London?  Has  he  ever 
taken  the  trouble  to  do  that?  Perhaps  his  lordship  who 
can  afford  to  throw  up  a  good  position  will  condescend 
to  do  so  now;  and  Mrs.  Filmer  takes  breath  from  her 
raving  and  rushes  to  the  door  and  bawls  up  the  stairs: 
"Harold!  Fred!  Dicky!  Come  and  show  your  clothes 
to  your  kind  uncle!  Come  and  hear  what  your  kind 
uncle  has  done!    Harold!    Freddie —  !  " 

Young  Wriford,  seated  at  the  table,  his  head  in  his 
hands:   "  Oh,  don't!    Oh,  for  God's  sake,  don't!  " 

"  Don't!  "  cries  Mrs.  Filmer.  "  No,  don't  let  you  be 
troubled  by  it!  It's  what  our  poor  devoted  Alice  has 
to  see  day  after  day.  It's  what  Mr.  Filmer  and  I  have 
to  screw  ourselves  to  death  to  try  to  prevent." 

"  And  their  schooling,"  says  Mr.  Filmer.  *'  And  their 
schooling,  h'm,  ha." 

Schooling!  This  settles  their  schooling,  Mrs.  Filmer 
cries.  They'll  have  to  leave  their  day-schools  now.  He'll 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  brother's  children  at- 
tending the  board-school.  Three  miserable  guineas  a 
week  he's  been  contributing  to  the  expenses,  and  was 
to    be    told    to-day  it    was   insufficient,   and   here   he 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  29 

is  with  the  news  that  he  has  left  Camber's!  Here 
he  is  — 

"  Good  God!  "  cries  Young  Wriford.  ''  Good  God, 
why  didn't  you  tell  me  all  this  before?  "  and  then,  as  at 
this  the  storm  breaks  upon  him  again,  gets  to  his  feet 
and  cries  distractedly:  "  Stop  it!  Stop  it!  "  and  then 
breaks  down  and  says:  "I'm  sorry  —  I'm  sorry.  I 
didn't  mean  that.  It's  come  all  of  a  blow  at  me,  all  this. 
I  never  knew.  I  never  dreamt  it.  It'll  be  all  right.  If 
you'll  let  me  alone,  I  swear  it'll  be  all  right.  The  three 
guineas  won't  stop.  I've  arranged  to  do  two  weekly 
articles  for  Gamber's  for  three  guineas  on  purpose  to 
keep  Alice  going.  I  can  get  other  work.  There's  other 
work  I've  heard  of  —  only  I  wanted  to  do  better  —  of 
course  that  doesn't  matter  now.  Look  here,  if  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst,  I'll  go  back  to  Gamber's.  They'll 
take  me  back  if  I  promise  to  give  up  the  work  I  want 
to  do.  I'm  sorry.  I  never  realised.  I  never  thought 
about  all  that.    I'm  sorry." 

He  is  sorry.  That,  both  now  and  for  the  years  that 
are  to  come,  is  his  chief  thought  —  his  daily,  desperate 
anxiety:  sorry  to  think  how  he  has  let  his  selfish  ideas 
of  better  work,  his  thoughts  of  marrying  Brida,  blind 
him  to  his  duty  to  devoted  Alice  and  to  old  Bill's  kids. 
Think  of  her  life  here!  Think  of  those  poor  little  beg- 
gars growing  up  and  the  education  they  ought  to  have, 
the  careers  old  Bill  would  have  wished  them  to  enter! 
He  is  so  sorry  that  only  for  one  sharp  moment  does  he 
cry  out  in  utter  dread  at  the  proposal  which  now  Mrs. 
Filmer,  a  little  mollified,  fixes  upon  him. 

"  In  any  case,"  says  Mrs.  Filmer,  "  whatever  you 
manage  to  do  or  decide  to  do,  you'd  better  come  and 
live  here.    You  can  live  far  more  cheaply  here  than 


30 


THE  CLEAN  HEART 


letting  a  London  landlady  have  part  of  your  in- 
come." 

Only  for  one  sharp  moment  he  protests.  "  I  couldn't !  " 
Young  Wriford  cries.  "  I  couldn't  work  here.  I  simply 
couldn't." 

"  You  can  have  a  nice  table  put  in  your  bedroom," 
says  Mrs.  Filmer.  "  If  you're  really  sorry,  if  you  really 
intend  to  do  your  duty  by  your  brother's  children  —  " 

"  All  right,"  says  Young  Wriford.  "  It's  very  kind 
of  you.    All  right." 

VIII 

He  does  not  return  to  Camber's.  He  is  one  of  the 
lucky  ones.  The  great  daily  newspaper,  the  Intelli- 
gence, has  a  particular  fame  for  its  column  of  leader- 
ettes and  latterly  is  forever  throwing  out  those  who 
write  them  in  search  of  one  who  shall  restore  them  to 
their  old  reputation  (recently  a  little  clouded).  Young 
Wriford  puts  in  for  the  post  and  gets  it  and  holds  it  and 
soon  couples  with  it  much  work  on  the  literary  side  of 
the  paper.  There  is  a  change  in  the  proprietorship  of 
the  penny  evening  paper,  the  Piccadilly  Gazette,  bring- 
ing in  one  who  turns  the  paper  upside  down  to  fill  it 
with  new  features.  Young  Wriford  puts  in  speci- 
mens of  a  column  of  facetious  humour  — "  Hit  or 
Miss  "  —  and  it  is  established  forthwith,  and  every 
morning  he  is  early  at  the  Piccadilly  Gazette  office  to 
produce  it. 

Thus  within  a  very  few  weeks  of  leaving  Camber's 
and  of  coming  to  live  at  Surbiton,  he  is  earning  more 
than  twice  as  much  as  he  had  relinquished  —  proving 
himself  most  manifestly  one   of   the  lucky  ones,  and 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  31 

earning  the  money  and  the  reputation  at  cost  to  himself 
of  which  only  himself  is  aware. 

He  is  from  the  house  at  seven  each  morning  to  reach 
the  Piccadilly  Gazette  by  eight,  hunting  through  the 
newspapers  as  the  train  takes  him  up  for  paragraphs 
wherewith  to  be  funny  in  "  Hit  or  Miss."  There  are 
days,  and  gradually  they  become  more  frequent,  when 
nothing  funny  will  come  to  his  mind;  when  his  mind  is 
hopelessly  tired;  when  his  column  is  flogged  out  amid 
furious  protests  and  expostulations  informing  him  that 
he  is  keeping  the  whole  damned  paper  waiting;  when 
he  leaves  the  office  badly  shaken,  cursing  it,  hating  it, 
dreading  that  this  day's  work  will  earn  him  dismissal 
from  it,  and  hurries  back  to  the  "  nice  table  "  in  his 
bedroom  at  Surbiton,  there  desperately  to  attack  the 
two  weekly  articles  for  Gamber's,  the  book-reviewing 
for  the  Intelligence  and  the  work  upon  his  novel:  that 
"  better  work,"  opportunity  for  which  had  caused  him  to 
leave  Mr.  Occshott  and  now  is  immeasurably  harder 
to  find. 

He  gets  into  the  habit  of  trying  to  enter  the  house 
noiselessly  and  noiselessly  to  get  to  his  room.  He  comes 
back  to  the  house  trying  to  forget  his  misgiving  about 
his  "  Hit  or  Miss  "  column  and  to  force  his  mind  to 
concentrate  on  the  work  he  now  has  to  do:  above  all, 
trying  to  avoid  meeting  any  one  in  the  house,  which 
means,  if  he  succeeds,  avoiding  "  a  scene  "  caused  by 
his  overwrought  nerves.  He  never  does  succeed.  There 
is  always  a  scene.  It  is  either  irritation  with  Alice  or 
with  one  of  the  boys  who  delay  him  or  interrupt  him, 
and  then  regret  and  remorse  at  having  shown  his  tem- 
per; or  it  is  a  scene  of  wilder  nature  with  Dragon  Mrs. 
Filmer  or  with  Mr.  Filmer.    Whatever  the  scene,  the 


32  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

result  is  the  same  —  inability  for  an  hour,  for  two  hours, 
for  all  the  morning,  properly  to  concentrate  upon  his 
work. 

It  will  be  perhaps  the  matter  of  his  room.  The  serv- 
ant is  making  the  bed,  or  it  isn't  made,  and  he  knows 
he  will  be  interrupted  directly  he  starts. 

Pounce  comes  Dragon  Mrs.  Filmer. 

"  Well,  goodness  knows  I  leave  the  house  early 
enough,"  says  Young  Wriford. 

"  Goodness  knows  you  do,"  says  Mrs.  Filmer. 
"  Breakfast  at  half-past  six!  " 

"  I  never  get  it." 

"  You're  never  down  for  it." 

Young  Wriford,  face  all  twisted:  "  Oh,  what's  the 
good!  We're  not  talking  about  that.  It's  about  my 
room." 

Mrs.  Filmer,  lips  compressed:  "  Certainly  it's  about 
your  room,  and  perhaps  you'll  tell  me  how  the  serv- 
ants —  " 

Young  Wriford:  "  All  I'm  saying  is  that  I  don't  see 
why  my  room  shouldn't  be  done  first." 

Mr.  Filmer  (attracted  to  the  battle) :  "  I'm  sure  if 
as  much  were  done  for  me  as  is  done  for  you  in  this 
establishment  —  h'm,  ha." 

AHce  (come  to  the  rescue) :  "  You  know,  Phihp,  you 
said  you  thought  you  wouldn't  get  back  till  lunch  this 
morning." 

Young  Wriford,  staring  at  them  all,  feeling  incoherent, 
furious  ravings  working  within  him,  with  a  despairing 
gesture:  "  Oh,  all  right,  all  right,  all  right!  I'm  sorry. 
Don't  go  on  about  it.  Just  let  me  alone.  I'm  all  be- 
hindhand.    I'm  —  " 

In  this  mood  he  begins  his  work.    This  is  the  mood 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  33 

that  has  to  be  fought  down  before  any  of  the  work  can 
be  successfully  done.  Often  a  day  will  reward  him  vir- 
tually nothing.  He  is  always  behindhand,  always  trying 
to  catch  up.  At  six  he  rushes  from  the  house  to  get  to 
the  Intelligence  office.  He  is  rarely  back  again  to  bed 
by  one  o'clock:  from  the  house  again  at  seven. 

IX 

Now  the  thing  has  Young  Wriford  and  rushes  him: 
now  grips  him  and  drives  him,  now  marks  him  and 
drops  him  as  he  takes  it.  Now  the  years  run.  Now  to 
the  last  drop  the  Young  Wriford  is  squeezed  out  of 
him:  Mr.  Wriford  now.  Now  men  name  him  for  one 
of  the  lucky  ones.  Now,  as  he  Hes  awake  at  night,  and 
as  he  trembles  as  he  walks  by  day,  he  hates  himself  and 
pities  himself  and  dreads  himself. 

Now  the  years  run  —  flash  by  Mr.  Wriford  —  bringing 
him  much  and  losing  him  all;  flash  and  are  gone.  Now 
he  might  leave  the  Filmer  household  and  Hve  again  by 
himself.  But  there  is  no  lea\dng  it,  once  he  is  of  it. 
Alice  wants  him,  and  he  tells  himself  it  is  his  duty  to  stay 
by  her.  His  money  is  wanted,  and  there  never  leaves 
him  the  dread  of  suddenly  losing  his  work  and  bringing 
them  all  to  poverty.  Now  he  gives  up  other  work  and  is 
of  the  Intelligence  alone,  handsomely  paid,  one  of  the 
lucky  ones.  It  gives  him  no  satisfaction.  It  would  have 
thrilled  Young  Wriford,  but  Young  Wriford  is  dead. 
Now  there  is  no  pinching  in  the  Surbiton  establishment, 
decided  comfort  rather.  The  boys  are  put  to  good 
schools  and  shaped  for  good  careers.  The  establish- 
ment itself  is  moved  to  larger  and  pleasanter  accommo- 
dation.   Alice  is  grateful,  the  boys  are  happy,  even  the 


34  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Filmers  are  grateful.  That  Young  Wriford  who  sat  in 
the  train  with  AHce  coming  down  from  Liverpool  eight 
years  before  and  planned  so  enthusiastically  and  schemed 
so  generously  would  have  been  happy,  proud,  de- 
lighted to  have  done  it  all.  But  that  Young  Wriford  is 
dead.  Mr.  Wriford  spends  nothing  on  himself  because 
he  wants  nothing  —  interests,  tastes  other  than  work, 
are  coffined  in  Young  Wriford 's  grave.  Mr.  Wriford 
just  produces  the  money  and  begs  —  nervily  as  ever, 
nay,  more  nervily  than  before  —  to  be  let  alone  to 
work;    he  is  always  behindhand. 

Now  the  novel  is  at  last  written  and  is  published  and 
flames  into  success.  Imagine  Young  Wriford's  amazed 
delight!  But  Young  Wriford  is  dead.  Mr.  Wriford, 
one  of  the  lucky  ones,  lucky  in  this  as  in  all  the  rest, 
contracts  handsomely  for  others  and  at  once  is  in  the 
rush  of  fulfilling  a  contract;   that  is  all. 

Now  Afice  is  taken  sick  —  mortally  sick.  Lingers  a 
long  while,  wants  Mr.  Wriford  badly  to  sit  with  her  and 
wants  him  always,  is  only  upset  by  her  mother.  Young 
Wriford  would  have  nursed  her  and  wept  for  her.  Mr. 
Wriford  nurses  her  very  devotedly,  as  she  says,  but  in 
long  hours  grudged  from  his  work,  as  he  knows.  And 
has  no  tears.  What,  are  even  tears  buried  with  Young 
Wriford?  Mr.  Wriford  believes  they  are  and  hates 
himself  anew  and  thousandfold  that  he  has  no  S}Tn- 
pathy,  and  often  in  remorse  rushes  home  from  the 
nightly  fight  with  the  Intelligence  to  go  to  Alice's  bed- 
side and  make  amends  —  not  for  active  neglects,  for 
there  have  been  none  —  but  for  the  secret  dryness  of  his 
heart  while  he  is  with  her  and  his  thoughts  are  with 
his  work.  These  are  stirrings  of  Young  Wriford,  but  of 
what  avail  stirrings  within  the  tomb? 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  35 

Alice  dies.  Here  is  Mr.  Wriford  by  her  death  caught 
anew  and  caught  worse  in  the  meshes  that  entangle 
him.  Remorse  oppresses  him  at  every  thought  of 
neglect  of  her  and  unkindness  to  her  through  these 
years.  It  can  only  be  assuaged  by  new  devotion  to  her 
boys  and  to  her  parents,  much  changed  and  stricken  by 
her  loss.  He  might  leave  this  household  now.  He  feels 
it  is  his  duty  to  remain  in  it.    They  want  him. 

The  thing  goes  on  —  swifter,  fiercer,  dizzier,  and  more 
dizzily  yet.  No  one  notices  it.  He's  young,  that's  all 
they  notice,  not  yet  thirty,  very  youthful  in  the  face, 
one  of  the  lucky  ones:  that's  all  they  notice.  It  goes 
on.  He  hides  it,  has  to  hide  it.  Can't  bear  that  any  of 
its  baser  manifestations  —  nerves,  nervousness,  shrink- 
ing —  should  be  noticed.  This  is  the  stage  of  shunning 
people  —  of  avoiding  people's  eyes  that  look,  not  at 
him,  but  into  him  and  laugh  at  him.  It  goes  on.  He 
surprises  himself  by  the  work  he  does  —  always  beheves 
that  this  which  has  brought  him  merit,  that  which  has 
named  him  one  of  the  lucky  ones  anew,  never  can  be 
equalled  again;  yet  somehow  is  equalled;  yet  ever,  as 
looking  back  he  believes,  at  cost  of  greater  effort,  with 
touch  less  sure.  This  is  the  stage  of  beginning  to  ex- 
pect that  one  day  there  will  be  an  end,  an  explosion, 
all  the  fabric  of  his  life  and  his  success  cant  on  its  rotten 
foundations  and  come  crashing. 

Now  the  years  run.  The  Intelligence  people  conceive 
The  Week  Reviewed:  Mr.  Wriford  forms  it,  executes  it, 
launches  it,  carries  it  to  success,  and  the  more  energy  he 
devotes  to  it  the  less  has  to  resist  the  crumbling  of  his 
foundations.  One  of  the  lucky  ones  —  one  that  has 
reached  the  stage  of  conscious  effort  to  perform  a  task, 
drives  himself  through  it,  finishes  it  trembling,  and  only 


36  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

wants  to  get  away  from  everybody  to  hide  how  he 
trembles,  and  only  wants  to  get  to  bed  where  it  is  dark 
and  quiet,  and  only  lies  there  turning  from  tangle  to 
tangle  of  his  preoccupations,  counting  the  hours  that 
refuse  him  sleep,  crying  to  himself  as  he  has  been  heard 
to  cry:  "  Oh,  I  say,  I  say,  I  say!  This  can't  go  on! 
This  must  end!    This  must  end!  " 

Thus,  thus  with  Mr.  Wriford,  and  worse  and  worse, 
and  worse  and  worse.  Thus  through  the  years  and 
thus  arrived  where  first  we  found  him.  Behold  him 
now,  ten  years  from  when  Young  Wriford,  just  twenty, 
met  AHce  and  the  children  at  Liverpool  and  ardently 
and  eagerly  and  fearlessly  planned  his  tremendous 
plans.  That  boy  is  dead.  Return  to  him,  Httle  over 
thirty,  everywhere  successful,  one  of  the  lucky  ones, 
that  is  come  out  of  the  grave  where  Young  Wriford 
lies.  Worse  and  worse!  There  is  nothing  he  touches 
but  brings  him  success;  there  is  no  one  he  meets  or 
who  speaks  of  him  but  envies  him;  and  successful, 
lucky,  it  is  only  by  throwing  himself  desperately  into 
his  work  that  he  can  forget  the  intolerable  misery  that 
presses  upon  him,  the  desire  to  wave  his  arms  and 
scream  aloud:  "  You  call  me  lucky!  Oh,  my  God!  Oh, 
can't  anybody  see  I'm  going  out  of  my  mind  with  all 
this?  Oh,  isn't  there  anybody  who  can  understand  me 
and  help  me?  Oh,  I  say,  I  say,  I  say,  this  can't  go  on. 
This  must  stop.    This  must  end." 

X 

You  see,  he  can't  get  out  of  it.  In  these  years  his 
unceasing  work,  his  harassing  work,  his  fears  of  it 
breaking  down  and  bringing  all  who  arc  dependent  upon 


YOUNG  WRIFORD  37 

him  to  misery,  and  all  his  distresses  of  mind  between 
the  one  and  the  other  —  all  this  has  killed  outlets  by 
which  now  he  might  escape  from  it  and  has  chained  him 
hand  and  foot  and  heart  and  mind  in  the  midst  of  it. 
His  nephews  leave  him  one  by  one  to  go  out  into  the 
world,  successfully  equipped  and  started  by  his  efforts. 
He  is  always  promising  himself,  as  first  Harold  goes, 
and  then  Fred  and  then  Dick,  who  has  chosen  for  the 
Army  and  enters  Sandhurst,  that  now  he  will  be  able  to 
change  his  mode  of  life  and  seek  the  rest  and  peace  he 
craves  for.    He  never  does.     He  never  can. 

He  never  can.  There  is  always  a  point  in  his  work 
on  his  paper  or  with  his  books  first  to  be  reached:  and 
when  it  is  reached,  there  is  always  another.  Now, 
surely,  with  Dick  soon  going  out  to  India,  he  might 
leave  the  Filmers.  They  are  comfortably  circum- 
stanced on  their  owti  means;  the  house  is  his  and  costs 
them  nothing.  Surely  now,  he  tells  himself,  he  might 
break  away  and  leave  them:  but  he  cries  to  himself 
that  for  this  reason  and  for  that  he  cannot  —  yet :  and 
he  cries  to  himself  that  if  he  could,  he  knows  not  how  he 
could.  Everything  in  Hfe  that  might  have  attracted 
him  is  buried  ten  years'  deep  in  Young  Wriford's  grave. 
Brida  could  rescue  him,  he  believes,  and  he  tries  Brida 
on  that  afternoon  which  has  been  seen:  ah,  like  all  the 
rest,  she  laughs  at  him  —  one  of  the  lucky  ones! 

He  is  chained  to  himself,  to  that  poor,  shrinking, 
hideous  devil  of  a  Mr.  Wriford  that  he  has  been  made: 
and  this  is  the  period  of  furious  hatred  of  that  self,  of 
burying  himself  in  his  work  to  avoid  it,  of  sitting  and 
staring  before  him  and  imagining  he  sees  it,  of  threaten- 
ing it  aloud  with  cries  of:  "  Curse  you!  Curse  you!  "  of 
scheming  to  lay  violent  hands  upon  it. 


CHAPTER  III 

FIGURE   OF   WRIFOKD 


There  comes  that  day  when  Mr.  Wriford  went  to 
Brida  in  desperate  search  of  some  one  who  should  under- 
stand him  and  give  him  peace.  It  is  a  week  after  Dick 
has  been  shipped  to  join  his  regiment  in  India,  and  after 
a  week  alone  with  the  Filmers,  and  of  knowing  not,  even 
now  that  his  responsibihties  are  finally  ended,  how  to 
get  out  of  it  all  —  yet.  It  was  his  press-night  with  The 
Week  Reviewed,  as  he  had  told  Brida,  and  Mr.  Wriford, 
with  two  articles  to  write,  called  upon  himself  for  the 
effort  to  write  them  and  to  get  his  paper  away  by  mid- 
night —  the  weekly  effort  to  "  pull  through  "  —  and 
somehow  made  it. 

Press-nights  nowadays  were  one  long,  desperate  grip 
upon  himself  to  keep  himself  going  until,  far  distant  in 
the  night  and  through  a  hundred  stresses  of  his  brain, 
the  goal  of  "  pulled  through  "  should  be  reached.  A 
hundred  stresses!  He  always  told  himself,  as  the  con- 
tingencies of  the  night  heaped  before  him,  that  this 
time  he  would  shirk  this  one,  delegate  that  one  to  a  sub- 
ordinate. He  never  did.  Fleet  Street  said  of  The  Week 
Reviewed  —  a  new  thing  in  journalism  —  that  Mr. 
Wriford  was  "  IT."  Unique  among  politico-literary 
weeklies  in  that  it  went  to  press  in  one  piece  in  one  day, 

38 


FIGURE  OF  WRIFORD  39 

and  thus  from  first  page  to  last  presented  a  balance  of 
contents  based  upon  the  afifairs  of  the  immediate  mo- 
ment, unique  in  that  it  was  illustrated,  in  that  it  had 
at  its  command  all  the  resources  of  the  Intelligence,  in 
that  its  price  was  two-pence  —  unique  in  all  this,  it  was 
said  by  those  who  knew  that  The  Week  Reviewed^ s  very 
great  success  was  more  directly  due  to  the  fact  that  it 
was  saturated  and  poHshed  in  every  article,  every  head- 
Hne,  every  caption,  by  Mr.  Wriford's  touch.  He  would 
never  admit  how  much  of  it  he  actually  wrote  himself; 
it  only  was  known  to  all  who  had  a  hand  in  the  making 
of  it  that  notliing  of  which  they  had  knowledge  went 
into  the  paper  precisely  in  the  form  in  which  it  first  came 
beneath  Mr.  Wriford's  consideration.  Sometimes,  in 
the  case  of  articles  written  by  outside  contributors  of 
standing,  members  of  his  staff  would  remonstrate  with 
him  in  some  apprehension  at  this  mangling  of  a  well- 
known  writer's  work. 

"  Well,  what  does  it  matter  who  he  is?  "  Mr.  Wriford 
would  cry.  "  I  don't  mind  people  thinking  things  in 
the  paper  are  rotten,  if  I've  passed  them  and  thought 
them  good.  But  I'm  damned  if  I  let  things  go  in  that 
I  know  are  rotten,  just  because  they're  written  by  some 
big  man.  I  don't  mind  my  own  judgment  being  blamed. 
But  I'm  not  going  to  hear  criticism  of  anything  in  my 
paper  and  know  that  I  made  the  same  criticism  myself 
but  let  it  go.  Satisfy  yourself!  That's  the  only  rule  to 
goby." 

Therefore  on  this  press-night  as  on  every  press-night 
—  but  somehow  with  worse  effect  this  night  than  any  — 
behold  Mr.  Wriford  satisfying  himself,  and  in  the  process 
whirhng  along  towards  the  state  that  finds  him  sick 
and  dizzy  and  trembling  when  at  last  the  paper  has 


40  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

gone  to  press  and  once  more  he  has  pulled  through. 
Behold  him  shrinking  lower  in  his  chair  as  the  night 
proceeds,  smoking  cigarettes  in  the  way  of  six  or  seven 
puffs  at  each,  then  giddiness,  and  then  hurling  it  from 
him  with  an  exclamation,  and  then  the  craving  for 
another  if  another  line  is  to  be  written,  and  then  the  same 
process  again;  stopping  in  his  work  in  the  midst  of  a 
sentence,  in  the  midst  of  a  word,  to  examine  a  page  sent 
down  from  the  composing-room;  twisting  himself  over 
it  to  satisfy  himself  with  it;  rushing  up-stairs  with  it  to 
where,  amid  heat  and  atmosphere  that  are  vile  and  in- 
tolerable to  him,  the  linotype  machines  are  rattling  wath 
din  that  is  maddening  to  him,  to  satisfy  himself  that  the 
page  has  not  been  rushed  to  the  foundry  without  his 
emendations;  there,  a  hundred  times,  sharp  argument 
that  is  infuriating  to  him  with  head-printer  and  machine- 
manager  who  battle  with  time  and  are  always  behind 
time  because  advertisements  and  blocks  are  late,  and 
now,  as  they  say,  he  must  needs  come  and  pull  a  page  to 
pieces;  down  to  his  room  again,  and  more  and  worse 
interruptions  that  a  thousand  times  he  tells  himself  he 
is  a  fool  not  to  leave  in  other  hands  and  yet  will  attend 
to  to  satisfy  himself;  time  wasted  with  superior  members 
of  his  staff  who  come  to  write  the  final  leaders  on  the  last 
of  the  night's  news  and  who  are  affected  by  no  thought  of 
need  for  haste  but  must  wait  and  gossip  till  this  comes 
from  Renter's  or  that  from  The  Intelligence's  own  corre- 
spondent; time  wasted  over  the  line  they  think  should 
be  taken  and  the  line  to  which  Mr.  Wriford,  to  satisfy 
himself,  must  induce  them.  Sometimes,  thus  occupied 
with  one  of  these  men,  Mr.  Wriford  —  a  part  of  his 
mind  striving  to  concentrate  on  the  article  he  was 
himself  in  the  midst  of  writing,  part  concentrating  on 


FIGURE  OF  WRIFORD  41 

the  page  that  lay  before  him  waiting  to  be  examined, 
part  on  the  jump  in  expectation  of  a  frantic  printer's 
boy  rushing  in  for  the  page  at  any  moment,  and  the 
whole  striving  to  force  itself  from  these  distractions  and 
fix  on  the  subject  under  discussion  —  sometimes  in  these 
tumults  Mr.  Wriford  would  have  the  impulse  to  let  the 
man  go  and  write  what  he  would  and  be  damned  to  him, 
or  the  page  go  as  it  stood  and  be  damned  to  it,  or  his 
own  article  be  cancelled  and  something  —  anything  to 
fill  —  take  its  place.  But  that  would  not  be  satisfying 
himself,  and  that  would  be  present  relief  at  the  cost  of 
future  dissatisfaction,  and  somehow  Mr.  Wriford  would 
make  the  necessary  separate  efforts  —  somehow  pull 
through. 

II 

Somehow  pull  through!  In  the  midst  of  the  worst 
nights,  Mr.  Wriford  would  strive  to  steady  himself  by 
looking  at  the  clock  and  assuring  himself  that  in  three 
hours  —  two  hours  —  one  hour  —  by  some  miracle  the 
tangle  would  straighten  itself,  and  he  would  have  pulled 
through  and  the  paper  be  gone  to  press,  as  he  had  pulled 
through  and  the  paper  been  got  away  before.  So  it 
would  be  to-night  —  but  to-night!  "  If  I  dropped  dead," 
said  Mr.  Wriford  to  himself,  standing  in  his  room  on 
return  from  a  rush  up-stairs  to  the  composing-room, 
and  striving  to  remember  in  which  of  his  tasks  he  had 
been  interrupted,  "  if  I  dropped  dead  here  where  I  am 
and  left  it  all  unfinished,  we  should  get  to  press  just  the 
same  somehow.  Well,  let  me,  for  God's  sake,  fix  on 
that  and  go  leisurely  and  steadily  as  if  it  didn't  matter. 
I  shall  go  mad  else;  I  shall  go  mad."    But  in  a  moment 


42  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

he  was  caught  up  in  the  storm  again  and  satisfying  him- 
self—  and  somehow  pulling  through.  At  shortly  before 
midnight  he  was  rushing  up-stairs  with  the  last  page 
of  his  own  article,  and  remaining  then  in  the  composing- 
room  that  sickened  him  and  dazed  him,  himself  to  make 
up  the  last  two  forms  —  correcting  proofs  on  wet  paper 
that  would  not  show  the  corrections  and  maddened 
him;  turning  aside  to  cut  down  articles  to  fit  columns; 
turning  aside  to  scribble  new  titles  or  to  shout  them  to 
the  compositors  who  stood  waiting  to  set  them;  turning 
aside  to  use  tact  with  the  publisher's  assistant  who  was 
up  in  distraction  to  know  what  time  they  were  ever 
likely  to  get  the  machines  going;  turning  aside  to  send 
a  messenger  to  ask  if  that  last  block  was  ever  coming; 
calculating  all  the  time  against  the  clock  to  the  last 
fraction  of  a  second  how  much  longer  he  could  delay  — 
forever  turning  aside,  forever  calculating;  deciding  at 
last  that  the  late  block  must  not  be  waited  for;  peering 
in  the  galley  racks  to  decide  what  should  fill  the  space 
that  had  been  left  for  it;  selecting  an  article  and  cutting 
it  to  fit;  at  highest  effort  of  concentration  scanning  the 
pages  that  at  last  were  in  proof  —  then  to  the  printer: 
"All  right;  let  her  go!"  Pulled  through!  And  the 
heavy  mallets  flattening  down  the  type  no  more  than 
echoes  of  the  smashing  pulses  in  his  brain.  .  .  . 

Pulled  through !  dizzily  down-stairs.  Pulled  through ! 
and  too  sick,  too  spent,  too  nerveless,  to  exchange 
words  with  those  of  his  staff  who  had  been  up-stairs 
with  him  and  were  come  down,  thanking  heaven  it  was 
over.  Pulled  through!  and  too  spent,  too  finished,  to 
clear  up  the  litter  of  his  room  as  he  had  intended  — 
capable  only  of  dropping  into  his  chair  and  then,  real- 
ising his  state,  of  caUing  upon  himself  in  actual  whis- 


FIGURE  OF  WRIFORD  43 

pers:  "  Wriford!    Wriford!    Wriford!  "  but  no  respond- 
ing energy. 

Ill 

He  began  to  think  of  going  home  and  began  to  think 
of  the  task  of  taking  down  his  coat  from  behind  the 
door  and  of  the  task  of  getting  into  it.  He  began  to 
think  of  the  paper  that  had  just  gone  to  press  and  began 
in  his  mind  to  go  slowly  through  it  from  the  first  page, 
enumerating  the  title  of  each  article  and  of  each  pic- 
ture. Somewhere  after  half-a-dozen  pages  he  would 
lose  the  thread  and  find  himself  miles  away,  occupied 
with  some  other  matter;  then  he  would  start  again. 

It  was  towards  one  o'clock  when  he  realised  that  if 
he  did  not  move,  he  would  miss  a  good  train  at  Waterloo 
and  have  a  long  wait  before  the  next.  He  decided  against 
the  effort  of  taking  down  and  getting  into  his  coat.  He 
took  up  his  hat  and  stick  and  left  the  building  by  the 
trade  entrance  at  the  back,  meeting  no  one.  He  followed 
his  usual  habit  of  walking  to  Waterloo  along  the  Em- 
bankment, and  it  was  nothing  new  to  him  —  for  a  press- 
night  —  that  occasionally  he  found  he  could  not  keep  a 
straight  course  on  the  pavement.  Too  many  cigarettes, 
he  thought.  He  crossed  to  the  river  side,  and  when  he 
was  a  little  way  from  Waterloo  Bridge,  a  more  violent 
swerve  of  his  unsteady  legs  scraped  him  roughly  against 
the  wall.  He  had  no  control  then,  even  over  his  limbs! 
and  at  that  realisation  he  stopped  and  laid  his  hands  on 
the  wall  and  looked  across  the  river  and  cried  to  himself 
that  frequent  cry  of  these  days:  "Wriford!  Wriford! 
Wriford!  " 

The  wall  was  rough  to  his  hands,  and  that  produced 


44  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

the  thought  of  how  soft  his  hands  were  —  how  contempt- 
ibly soft  he  was  all  over  and  all  through.  "  Wriford! 
Wriford!  Wriford!  "  cried  Mr.  Wriford  to  himself  and 
had  a  great  surge  through  all  his  pulses  that  seemed  — 
as  frequently  in  these  days  but  now  more  violently,  more 
completely  than  ever  before  —  to  wash  him  asunder 
from  himself,  so  that  he  was  two  persons:  one  within 
his  body  that  was  the  Wriford  he  knew  and  hated,  the 
other  that  was  himself,  his  own,  real  self,  and  that  cried 
to  his  vile,  his  hateful  body:  "  Wriford!  Wriford!  Wri- 
ford! " 

Intolerable  —  past  enduring!  Mr.  Wriford  jumped 
upwards,  suspending  his  weight  on  his  arms  on  the  wall, 
and  by  the  action  was  dispossessed  of  other  thought 
than  sudden  recollection  of  exercises  on  the  horizontal 
bar  at  school;  seemed  to  be  in  the  g>Tnnasium,  and  saw 
the  faces  of  forgotten  school-fellows  who  were  in  his 
g>Tn  set  waiting  their  turn.  Then  the  Embankment 
again  and  realisation.  Should  he  drop  back  to  the 
pavement?  "Wriford!  Wriford!  Wriford!"  He 
mastered  that  vile,  damned,  craven  body  and  threw  up 
his  right  leg  and  scrambled  and  pitched  himself  forward; 
was  conscious  of  striking  his  thigh  violently  against  the 
wall,  and  at  the  pain  and  as  he  fell,  thought:  "  Ha, 
that's  one  for  you,  damn  you!  I've  got  you  this  time! 
Got  you!  "  And  then  was  in  the  river,  and  then  in- 
stinctively swimming,  and  then  "Drown,  damn  you! 
Drown!  "  cried  Mr.  Wriford  and  stopped  the  action  of 
his  arms,  and  went  down  swallowing  and  struggling, 
and  came  up  struggling  and  choking,  and  instinctively 
struck  out  again. 

Shouts  and  running  feet  on  the  Embankment. 
"  Drown,  damn  you!     Drown,  drown!  "  cried  Mr.  Wri- 


FIGURE  OF  WRIFORD  45 

ford;  went  down  again,  came  up  facing  the  wall,  and 
in  the  lamplight  and  in  the  tumult  of  his  senses,  saw 
quite  clearly  a  bedraggled-looking  individual  peering 
down  at  him  and  quite  clearly  heard  him  call:  "  Nah, 
then.    Nah,  then.    Wot  yer  up  to  dahn  there?  " 

Shouts  and  running  feet  on  the  police  pier  not  thirty 
yards  away;  sounds  of  feet  in  a  boat;  and  then  to  Mr. 
Wriford's  whirling,  smashing  intelligence,  the  sight  of 
a  boat  —  and  what  that  meant. 

Mr.  Wriford  thrust  his  hands  that  he  could  not  stop 
from  swimming  into  the  tops  of  his  trousers  and  twisted 
his  wrists  about  his  braces.  "  Drown,  damn  you! 
Drown!  "  cried  Mr.  Wriford,  and  the  whirling,  smashing 
scenes  and  noises  lost  coherence  and  only  whirled  and 
smashed,  and  then  a  hand  was  clutching  him,  and  coher- 
ence returned,  and  Mr.  Wriford  screamed:  "  Let  me  go! 
Let  me  go!  "  and  freed  an  arm  from  the  entanglement 
of  his  braces  and  dashed  it  into  the  face  bending  over 
him  and  with  his  fist  struck  the  face  hard. 

"  Shove  him  under,"  said  the  man  at  the  oars. 
"  Shove  him  under.    He'll  'ave  us  over  else.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Wriford  was  lying  in  the  boat.  "  Let  me  go," 
cried  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Let  me  go.  You're  hurting 
me." 

"  You've  hurt  me,  you  pleader,"  said  the  man,  but 
relaxed  the  knuckles  that  were  digging  into  Mr.  Wri- 
ford's neck. 

Mr.  Wriford  moaned:  "  Well,  why  couldn't  you  let 
me  drown?  Why,  in  God's  name,  couldn't  you  let  me 
drown?  " 

"  Not  arf  grateful,  you  beggars  ain't,"  said  the  man; 
and  presently  Mr.  Wriford  found  himself  pulled  up  from 
the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  handed  out  on  to  the  police 


46  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

landing-stage    to   a   constable   with:     "  'Old    'im  fast, 
Three-Four-One.    Suicide,  he  is.    'Old  'im  fast." 

Three-Four-One  responded  with  heavy  hand  .  .  . 
conversation.  .  .  .  Mr.  Wriford  standing  dripping, 
sick,  cold,  beyond  thought,  presently  walking  across 
the  Embankment  and  up  a  street  leading  to  the  Strand 
in  Three-Four-One's  strong  grasp. 

"  Where  are  you  taking  me?  "  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  Bow  Street,"  said  Three-Four-One. 

"  Let  me  go!  "  sobbed  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  Not  arf,"  said  Three-Four-One. 

Then  a  police  whistle,  shouts,  running  feet.  Round 
the  corner  two  men  racing  at  top  speed  into  Mr.  Wriford 
and  Three-Four-One,  and  Mr.  Wriford  and  Three-Four- 
One  sent  spinning.  All  to  earth,  and  the  two  runners 
atop,  and  a  pursuing  constable,  unable  to  stop,  upon  the 
four  of  them.    Blows,  oaths,  struggles. 

Mr.  Wriford  rolled  free  of  the  pack  and  got  to  his 
feet,  viewed  a  moment  the  struggle  in  progress  before 
him,  then  turned  down  the  side-street  whence  the  pur- 
suit had  come,  and  ran;  doubled  up  to  the  Strand  and 
across  the  Strand  and  ran  and  ran  and  ran,  glanced  over 
his  shoulder  and  saw  one  running,  not  after  him,  but 
with  him  —  wet  as  himself  and  very  like  himself. 
"  What  do  you  want?  "  gasped  Mr.  Wriford.  The  figure 
made  no  reply  but  steadily  ran  with  Mr.  Wriford,  and 
Mr.  Wriford  recognised  him  and  stopped.  "  You're 
Wriford,  aren't  you?  "  cried  Mr.  Wriford,  and  in  sudden 
paroxysm  screamed:  "Why  didn't  you  drown?  Why 
didn't  you  drown  when  I  tried  to  drown  you,  curse 
you?  "  and  in  parox}^sm  of  hate  struck  the  man  across 
his  face.  He  felt  his  own  face  struck  but  felt  hurt  no 
more  than  when  he  had  bruised  his  thigh  in  leaping 


FIGURE  OF  WRIFORD  47 

from  the  Embankment  wall.  "  Come  on,  then!  "  cried 
Mr.  Wriford.  "  Come  on,  then,  if  you  can!  I'll  make 
you  sorry  for  it,  Wriford.    Come  on,  then!  " 

And  Mr.  Wriford  turned  again,  and  with  the  figure 
steadily  beside  him,  ran  and  ran  and  ran  and  ran  and 
ran. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ONE  RXJNS:     ONE  FOLLOWS 


Most  dreadful  pains  of  distressed  breathing,  of  burst- 
ing heart  and  of  throbbing  head,  afflicted  Mr.  Wriford 
as  he  ran.  He  laboured  on  despite  them.  He  forgot, 
too,  that  he  had  started  running  to  escape  arrest  and 
had  run  on  —  across  the  Strand,  up  Kingsway,  through 
Russell  Square,  across  the  Euston  road  and  still  on  — 
in  terror  of  pursuit.  All  that  possessed  him  now  was 
fear  and  hatred  of  the  one  that  ran  steadily  at  his  elbow, 
whom  constantly  he  looked  at  across  his  shoulder  and 
then  would  try  to  run  faster,  whom  presently  he  faced, 
halting  in  his  run  and  at  first  unable  to  speak  for  the 
agonies  of  his  exertions. 

Then  Mr.  Wriford  said  gaspingly:  "Look  here  — 
you're  not  to  follow  me.  Do  you  understand?  "  and 
then  cried,  with  sobbing  breaths:  "  Go  away!  Go 
away,  I  tell  you!  " 

In  the  rays  that  came  from  an  electric-light  standard 
near  which  they  stood,  Figure  of  Wriford  seemed  only 
to  grin  in  mock  of  these  commands. 

Mr.  Wriford  waited  to  recover  more  regular  breath- 
ing. Then  he  said  fiercely:  "  Look  here  I  Look  across 
the  road.  There's  a  policeman  there  watching  us. 
D'you  see  him?  Well,  are  you  going  to  leave  me,  or 
am  I  going  to  give  you  in  charge?    Now,  then!  " 

48 


ONE  RUNS:    ONE  FOLLOWS  49 

Figure  of  Wriford  only  looked  mockingly  at  him; 
and  first  there  came  to  Mr.  Wriford  a  raging  impulse 
to  strike  him  again,  and  then  the  knowledge  that  the 
policeman  was  watching;  and  then  Mr.  Wriford  stepped 
swiftly  across  the  road  to  carry  out  his  threat;  and 
then,  as  he  approached  the  policeman,  had  a  sudden 
realisation  of  the  spectacle  he  must  present  —  clothes 
dripping,  hat  gone,  collar  ripped  away  —  and  for  fear 
of  creating  a  scene,  changed  his  intention.  But  his  first 
impulse  had  brought  him  right  up  to  the  policeman. 
He  must  say  something.  He  knew  he  was  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Camden  Town.  He  said  nervously,  trying  to 
control  his  laboured  breathing:  "  Can  you  tell  us  the 
way  to  Camden  Town,  please?  " 

II 

This  chanced  to  be  a  constable  much  used  to  the 
oddities  of  London  life  and,  by  many  years  of  senior 
officer  bullying  and  magisterial  correction,  cautious  of 
interference  with  the  public  unless  supported  by  direct 
Act  of  Parliament.  He  awaited  with  complete  uncon- 
cern the  bedraggled  figure  whose  antics  he  had  watched 
across  the  road,  and  in  reply  to  Mr.  Wriford's  hesita- 
ting: "  We  want  to  get  to  Camden  Town.  Can  you  tell 
us  the  way,  please,"  remarked  over  Mr.  Wriford's  head 
and  without  bending  his  own:  "  Well,  you've  got  what 
you  want.  It's  all  round  you,"  and  added,  indulging 
the  humour  for  which  he  had  some  reputation:  "  That's 
a  bit  of  it  you're  holding  down  with  your  feet." 

Mr.  Wriford  looked  at  Figure  of  Wriford  standing 
by  his  side.  He  looked  so  long  with  hating  eyes,  and  was 
so  long  occupied  with  the  struggle  to  brave  fear  of  a 


50  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

scene  and  give  the  man  in  charge  for  following  him,  that 
he  felt  some  further  explanation  was  due  to  the  police- 
man before  he  could  move  away. 

"Thanks,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "Thank  you,  we 
rather  thought  we'd  lost  our  way." 

The  policeman  unbent  a  little  and  exercised  his  hu- 
mour afresh.  "Well,  we've  found  it  right  enough," 
said  he.  "  What  are  us,  by  any  chance?  King  of 
Proosia  or  Imperial  Hemperor  of  Wot  O  She 
Bumps?  " 

The  constable's  facetiousness  was  of  a  part  with  those 
slights  to  his  dignity  from  inferiors  which  always  caused 
Mr.  Wriford  insufferable  humiliation.  It  angered  him 
and  gave  him  courage.  "  Take  that  man  in  charge," 
cried  Mr.  Wriford  sharply.  "  He's  following  me.  I'm 
afraid  of  him.    Take  him  in  charge." 

"  What  man?  "  said  the  constable.  "  Don't  talk  so 
stupid.    There's  no  man  there." 

"  That  man,"  cried  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Are  you  drunk 
or  what?    Where's  your  Inspector?  " 

The  constable,  roused  by  this  behaviour:  "  My 
Inspector's  where  you'll  be  pretty  sharp,  if  I  have  much 
more  of  it  —  at  the  station!  Now,  then!  Coming  to 
me  with  your  us-es  and  your  we-es!  'Op  off  out  of  it, 
d'ye  see?    'Op  it  an'  quick." 

Mr.  Wriford  stared  at  him  uncomprehendingly  for  a 
moment  and  then  screamed  out:  "  I  tell  you  that 
man's  following  me.  What's  he  following  me  for?  He's 
followed  me  miles.  I'm  afraid  of  him.  Send  him  off. 
Send  him  away." 

The  constable  tucked  his  gloves  in  his  belt  and  caught 
Mr.  Wriford  strongly  by  the  shoulder.  "  Now,  look 
here,"  said  the  constable,  "  there's  no  man  there,  and 


ONE  RUNS:    ONE  FOLLOWS  51 

if  you  go  on  with  your  nonsense,  you're  Found  Wander- 
ing whilst  of  Unsound  Mind,  that's  what  you  are. 
You're  asking  for  it,  that's  what  you're  doing,  and  in 
less  than  a  minute  you'll  get  it,  if  you  ain't  careful. 
Why  don't  you  behave  sensible?  What's  the  matter 
with  you?  Now,  then,  are  you  going  to  'op  it  quiet,  or 
am  I  going  to  take  you  along?  " 

All  manner  of  confusing  ideas  whirled  in  Mr.  Wri- 
ford's  brain  while  the  constable  thus  addressed  him. 
How,  if  he  went  to  the  Police  Station,  was  he  going  to 
explain  who  this  man  was  that  was  following  him?  The 
man  was  himself  —  that  hated  Wriford.  Then  who 
was  he?  Very  bewildering.  Very  difficult  to  explain. 
Best  get  out  of  this  and  somehow  give  the  man  the 
slip.  He  addressed  the  constable  quietly  and  with  a 
catch  at  his  breath:  "  All  right.  It's  all  right.  Never 
mind." 

The  constable  released  him.  "  Now  do  you  know 
where  you  live?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know;  oh,  I  know,"  Mr.  Wriford  said. 

"  Got  some  one  to  look  after  you,  waiting  up  for 
you?  " 

"  Yes  —  yes." 

"  Goin'  to  'op  it  quiet?  " 

"Yes  — yes.     It's  all  right." 

"  Not  goin'  to  give  nobody  in  charge?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  stood  away  and  wiped  his  eyes  with  the 
back  of  his  hand.  He  said  miserably:  "  No,  it's  all 
right.  Only  a  bit  of  a  quarrel.  It's  nothing.  We'll  go 
on.    We're  all  right." 

"  Well,  let  me  see  you  'op  it,"  said  the  policeman. 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  All  right,"  and  he 
walked  on,  still  just  catching  his  breath  a  little,  and 


52  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

puzzling,  and  watching  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes 
Figure  of  Wriford  who  came  on  beside  him. 


HI 

He  walked  on  through  Camden  Town  and  through 
Kentish  Town,  Figure  of  Wriford  at  his  elbow.  Some- 
times he  would  glance  at  Figure  of  Wriford  and  then 
would  begin  to  run.  Figure  of  Wriford  ran  with  him. 
Sometimes  he  would  stop  and  stand  still.  Figure  of 
Wriford  also  stopped,  halting  a  little  behind  him.  Once 
as  he  looked  back  at  Figure  of  Wriford,  he  saw  a  news- 
paper cart  overtaking  them,  piled  high  with  morning 
papers,  driving  fast.  Mr.  Wriford  stepped  off  the  pave- 
ment and  began  to  cross  the  road.  He  judged  very 
exactly  the  distance  at  which  Figure  of  W'riford  fol- 
lowed him.  When  Figure  of  Wriford  was  right  in  the 
cart's  way,  and  he  a  pace  or  two  beyond  it,  he  suddenly 
turned  back  and  rushed  for  the  pavement  again. 

"  Now  you're  done  for!  "  he  shouted  in  Figure  of 
Wriford's  face;  but  it  was  himself  that  the  shaft  struck 
a  glancing  blow,  staggering  him  to  the  path  as  the  horse 
was  wrenched  aside;  and  he  was  dizzied  and  scarcely 
heard  the  shouts  of  abuse  cursed  at  him  by  the  driver, 
as  the  cart  went  on  and  he  was  left  groaning  at  the  vio- 
lent hurt  and  shock  he  had  suffered,  Figure  of  Wriford 
beside  him. 


IV 

Mr.  Wriford  walked  on  and  on,  planning  schemes  of 
escape  as  he  walked,  and  presently  thought  of  one. 
He  was  by  now  at  Highgate  Archway,  and  following 


ONE  RUNS:    ONE  FOLLOWS  53 

the  way  he  had  pursued,  came  upon  the  road  that  runs 
through  Finchley  to  Barnet  and  so  in  a  great  highway 
to  the  country  beyond.  Now  early  morning  and  early 
morning's  solitude  had  given  place  to  the  warmth  and 
opening  activities  of  five  o'clock  —  labourers  passed  to 
their  work,  occasional  tram-cars,  scraping  on  their 
overhead  wires,  came  from  Barnet  or  ran  towards  it. 
Mr.  Wriford  was  glad  of  the  sun.  His  running  until  he 
met  the  policeman  had  overcome  the  chill  of  his  immer- 
sion in  the  river.  Since  then,  he  had  felt  his  soaked 
clothing  chnging  about  him,  and  his  teeth  chattered 
and  he  shivered,  very  cold.  His  exertions  had  run  the 
water  off  him.  Now  the  strong  sun  began  to  dry  him. 
Gradually,  as  he  went  on,  the  shivering  ceased  to  mingle 
with  his  breathing  and  only  came  to  shake  him  in  spas- 
modic convulsions,  very  violent.  But  his  breathing 
remained  in  catching  sobs,  and  that  was  because  of  his 
fear  and  hate  of  the  one  that  trod  at  his  elbow,  and  of 
effort  and  resolution  on  the  plan  that  should  escape 
him. 

He  began,  as  he  approached  the  signs  that  indicated 
halting-stations  for  the  tram-cars,  to  hurry  past  them, 
and  when  he  was  beyond  a  post,  to  dally  and  look  be- 
hind him  for  an  overtaking  car.  Several  he  allowed  to 
pass.  They  were  travelling  too  slowly  for  his  purpose, 
and  Figure  of  Wriford  was  watching  him  very  closely. 
He  came  presently  to  a  point  where  the  road  began  to 
descend  gently  in  a  long  and  straight  decline. 

Here  cars  passed  very  swiftly,  and  as  one  came  speed- 
ing while  he  was  between  halting-stations,  Mr.  Wriford 
bound  up  his  purpose  and  launched  it.  The  car  whizzed 
up  to  them;  Mr.  Wriford,  looking  unconcernedly  ahead, 
let  it  almost  pass  him,  then  he  struck  a  savage  blow  at 


54  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Figure  of  Wriford  and  made  a  sudden  and  a  wild  dash 
to  scramble  aboard.  The  pole  on  the  conductor's  plat- 
form was  torn  through  his  hands  that  clutched  at  it; 
he  grasped  desperately  at  the  back  rail,  stumbled,  was 
dragged,  clung  on,  got  a  foot  on  the  step,  almost  fell, 
grabbed  at  the  pole,  drew  himself  aboard,  and  threw 
himself  against  the  conductor  who  had  rushed  down 
from  the  top  and,  with  one  hand  clutched  at  Mr.  Wri- 
ford, with  the  other  was  about  to  ring  the  bell. 

Mr.  Wriford's  onset  threw  him  violently  against  the 
door,  and  Mr.  Wriford,  collapsed  against  him,  cried: 
"Don't  ring!  Don't  stop!"  and  then  turned  and  at 
what  he  saw,  screamed:  "  Don't  let  that  man  get  on! 
Don't  let  him!  Throw  him  off !  Throw  him  off!  I  tell 
you,  throw  him  —  "  But  the  conductor,  very  angry, 
shaken  in  the  nerves  and  bruised  against  the  door, 
hustled  Mr.  Wriford  within  the  car,  and  Mr.  Wriford 
saw  Figure  of  Wriford  following  on  the  heels  of  their 
scufifle;  collapsed  upon  a  seat  and  saw  Figure  of  Wriford 
take  a  place  opposite  him;  began  to  moan  softly  to 
himself  and  could  not  pay  any  attention  to  the  con- 
ductor's abuse. 

"  Serve  you  right,"  said  the  conductor  very  heatedly, 
"  if  you'd  broke  your  neck.  Jumpin'  on  my  car  like 
that.  Serve  you  to  rights  if  you'd  broke  your  neck. 
Nice  thing  for  me  if  you  had,  I  reckon.  I  reckon  it's 
your  sort  what  gets  us  poor  chaps  into  trouble."  He 
held  on  to  an  overhead  strap,  swayed  indignantly  above 
Mr.  Wriford,  and  obtaining  no  satisfaction  from  him  — 
sitting  there  very  dejectedly,  twisting  his  hands  to- 
gether, little  moans  escaping  him,  tears  standing  in  his 
eyes  —  directed  his  remarks  towards  the  single  other 
passenger  in  the  car,  who  was  a  very  stout  workman 


ONE   RUNS:    ONE   FOLLOWS  55 

and  who,  responding  with  a  refrain  of:  "Ah.  That's 
right,"  induced  the  conductor  to  reiterate  his  charge 
in  order  to  earn  a  full  measure  of  the  comfort  which 
"  Ah.     That's  right  "  evidently  gave  him. 

"  Serve  you  right  if  you'd  broke  your  neck,"  declared 
the  conductor. 

"  Ah.     That's  right,"  agreed  the  stout  workman. 

"  Your  sort  what  gets  us  chaps  into  trouble,  I 
reckon." 

"  Ah.    That's  right,"  the  stout  workman  affirmed. 

"  Nice  thing  for  me  an'  my  mate,"  declared  the  con- 
ductor, "  to  go  before  the  Coroner.  Lose  a  day's  work 
and  not  'arf  lucky  if  we  get  off  with  that." 

"  Ah.  That's  right,"  said  the  stout  workman  and  spat 
on  the  floor  and  rubbed  it  in  with  a  stout  boot,  and  as 
if  intellectually  enlivened  by  this  discharge,  varied  his 
agreement  to:   "  That's  right,  that  is.    Ah." 

"  Serve  you  right  —  "  began  the  conductor  again,  and 
Mr.  Wriford,  acted  upon  by  his  persistence,  said  wearily: 
"  Well,  never  mind.  Never  mind.  I'm  all  right 
now." 

"  Well,  I  reckon  you  didn't  ought  to  be,"  declared  the 
conductor.  "  Not  if  I  hadn't  come  down  them  steps 
pretty  sharp,  you  didn't  ought." 

The  stout  workman:   "  Ah.    That's  right." 

Now  the  conductor  suddenly  produced  his  tickets 
and  sharply  demanded  of  Mr.  Wriford:  "  Penny  one? 
Reckon  you  ought  to  pay  double,  you  ought." 

Mr.  Wriford  as  suddenly  roused  himself,  looked  across 
at  Figure  of  Wriford  seated  opposite,  and  as  sharply 
replied:  "I'm  not  going  to  pay  for  him!  I  won't  pay 
for  him,  mind  you!  " 

The  conductor  followed  the  direction  of  Mr.  Wriford's 


$6  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

eyes,  looked  thence  towards  the  stout  workman,  and 
then  turned  upon  Mr.  Wriford  with:  "  Pay  for  yourself. 
That's  what  you've  got  to  do." 

"  Ah.    That's  right,"  agreed  the  workman. 

Mr.  Wriford,  breathing  very  hard,  paid  a  penny,  and 
receiving  his  ticket,  watched  the  conductor  very  fever- 
ishly while  he  said:  "  Takes  you  to  Barnet,"  and  while 
at  last  he  turned  away  and  stood  against  the  entrance. 
Then  Mr.  Wriford  pointed  to  where  Figure  of  Wriford 
sat  and  cried:   "  Where's  that  man's  ticket?  " 

The  conductor  looked  at  the  stout  workman  and 
tapped  himself  twice  upon  the  forehead. 

"  Ah.  That's  right,"  said  the  stout  workman;  and 
thus  supported,  the  conductor,  no  less  a  humourist  than 
the  policeman  of  an  hour  before,  informed  Mr.  Wriford, 
with  a  wink  at  the  stout  workman:  "  He  don't  want  no 
ticket." 

Mr.  Wriford  appealed  miserably:  "  Oh,  why  not? 
Why  not?  " 

"  He  rides  free,"  said  the  conductor.  "  That's  what 
he  does,"  and  while  the  stout  workman  agreed  to  this 
with  his  usual  formula,  Mr.  Wriford  rocked  himself  to 
and  fro  in  his  corner  and  said:  "  Oh,  why  did  you  let 
him  on?  Why  did  you  let  him  on?  I  asked  you  not  to. 
Oh,  I  asked  you." 

This  caused  much  amusement  to  the  conductor  and 
the  stout  workman,  and  at  Barnet  the  conductor  very 
successfully  launched  two  shafts  of  wit  which  he  had 
elaborated  with  much  care.  As  Mr.  Wriford  alighted, 
"  Wait  for  your  friend,"  the  conductor  said,  and  as  Mr. 
Wriford  paused  with  twisting  face  and  then  set  off  up 
the  road,  turned  for  the  stout  workman's  apprecia- 
tion and  discharged  his  second  brand.     "  Reckon  he 


ONE  RUNS:    ONE  FOLLOWS  57 

ought  to  ha'  bin  on  a  'Anwell  ^  car,"  said  the  con- 
ductor. 

"  Ah.    That's  right,"  said  the  stout  workman. 


Mr.  Wriford  passed  through  Barnet  and  walked  on  to 
the  open  country  beyond,  and  still  on  and  on  throughout 
the  day.  He  halted  neither  for  rest  nor  refreshment. 
Night  came,  and  still  he  walked.  He  had  no  thought  of 
sleep,  but  sleep  stole  upon  his  limbs.  He  stumbled  on  a 
grassy  roadside,  fell,  did  not  rise  again,  and  slept.  The 
hours  marched  and  brought  him  to  new  day.  He  awoke, 
looked  at  Figure  of  Wriford  who  sat  wide-eyed  beside 
him,  said  "  Oh  —  oh!  "  and  walking  all  day  long,  said 
no  other  word. 

Dusk  of  the  second  evening  stole  across  the  fields  and 
massed  ahead  of  him.  Mr.  Wriford's  progression  was 
now  no  more  than  a  laboured  dragging  of  one  foot  and 
a  slow  placing  it  before  the  other.  He  came  at  this  gait 
over  the  brow  of  a  hill,  and  it  revealed  to  him  one  at 
whose  arresting  appearance  and  at  whose  greeting  Mr. 
Wriford  for  the  first  time  stopped  of  his  own  will  and 
stood  and  stared,  swa>'ing  upon  his  feet. 

^  Hanwell  is  the  great  lunatic  asylum  of  London. 


CHAPTER  V 

ONE   IS   MET 

This  was  a  somewhat  tattered  gentleman,  very  tall, 
seated  comfortably  against  the  hedge,  long  legs  stretched 
before  him,  one  terminating  in  a  brown  boot  of  good 
shape,  the  other  in  a  black,  through  which  a  toe  pro- 
truded. This  gentleman  was  shaped  from  the  waist 
upwards  like  a  pear,  in  that  his  girth  was  considerable, 
his  shoulders  very  narrow,  and  his  head  and  face  like  a 
little  round  ball.  He  ate,  as  he  reclined  there,  from  a 
large  piece  of  bread  in  one  hand  and  a  portion  of  cold 
sausage  in  the  other;  and  he  appeared  to  be  no  little 
incommoded  as  he  did  so,  and  as  Mr.  Wriford  watched 
him,  by  a  distressing  affliction  of  the  hiccoughs  which, 
as  they  rent  him,  he  pronounced  hup! 

"  Hup!  "  said  this  gentleman  with  his  mouth  full;  and 
then  again  "  hup!  "  He  then  cleared  his  mouth,  and  re- 
garding Mr.  Wriford  with  a  jolly  smile,  upraised  the 
sausage  in  greeting  and  trolled  forth  in  a  very  deep  voice 
and  in  the  familiar  chant: 

"  '  O  all  ye  tired  strangers  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the 
Lord :   praise  Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever  '  —  hup! 

"  But  you  can't  do  that,"  continued  the  pear-shaped 
gentleman,  "  when  the  famine  has  you  in  the  vitals  and 
the  soreness  in  the  legs,  as  it  has  you,  unless  you've  prac- 
tised it  as  much  as  I  have.  Then  it  is  both  food  and 
rest.    In  this  wise  — 

s8 


ONE  IS  MET  59 

"  Hup!  —  0  all  ye  hungry  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the 
Lord;   praise  Him  and  hup-miy  Him  for  ever. 

"  Hunger,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  pear-shaped  gentle- 
man, "  flee-eth  before  that  shout  as  the  wild  goat  before 
the  hunter.  Hunger  or  any  ill.  I  have  known  every  ill 
and  defeated  them  all.    Selah!  " 

There  was  about  this  unusual  gentleman  that  which 
doubly  attracted  Mr.  Wriford.  The  Mr.  Wriford  of  a 
very  few  days  ago,  who  avoided  eyes,  who  shrank  from 
strangers,  would  hurriedly  and  self-consciously  have 
passed  him  by.  The  Mr.  Wriford  with  whom  Figure  of 
Wriford  walked  was  attracted  by  the  pear-shaped  gentle- 
man's careless  happiness  and  attracted  much  more  by 
his  last  words.  He  came  a  slow  step  nearer  the  pear- 
shaped  gentleman,  looked  at  Figure  of  Wriford,  and 
from  him  with  eyes  that  signalled  secrecy  to  the  pear- 
shaped  gentleman,  and  in  a  low  voice  demanded:  "  You 
have  known  every  ill?    Have  you  ever  been  followed?  " 

The  pear-shaped  gentleman  stared  curiously  at  Mr. 
Wriford  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said:  "  Not  so  much 
followed,  which  implies  interest  or  curiosity,  as  chased 
—  which  betokens  vengeance  or  heat.  With  me  that  is 
a  Gommon  lot.  By  dogs  often  and  frequently  bitten  of 
them.  By  farmers  a  score  time  and  twice  assaulted. 
By  —  " 

"  Have  you  ever  been  followed  by  yourself?  "  Mr. 
Wriford  interrupted  him. 

The  pear-shaped  gentleman  inclined  his  head  to  one 
side  and  examined  Mr.  Wriford  more  curiously  than 
before.    "  Have  you  come  far?  "  he  inquired. 

"  From  Barnet,"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  Spare  us!  "  said  the  pear-shaped  gentleman  with 
much  piety.    "  Long  on  the  road?  " 


6o  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Mr.  Wriford  looked  at  Figure  of  Wriford,  and  for  the 
first  time  since  the  event  on  the  Embankment  cast  his 
mind  back  along  their  companionship.  It  seemed  im- 
mensely long  ago;  and  at  the  thought  of  it,  there  over- 
came Mr.  Wriford  a  full  and  a  sudden  sense  of  his  misery 
that  somehow  unmanned  him  the  more  by  virtue  of 
this,  the  first  sympathetic  soul  he  had  met  since  he  had 
fled  —  since,  as  somehow  it  seemed  to  him,  very  long 
before  his  flight.  He  said,  with  a  break  in  his  voice  and 
his  voice  very  weak:  "  I  don't  know  how  long  we've 
been.    We've  been  a  long  time." 

The  pear-shaped  gentleman  inclined  his  head  with  a 
jerk  to  the  opposite  side  and  took  a  long  gaze  at  Mr. 
Wriford  from  that  position.  He  then  said:  "  How  many 
of  you?  " 

Mr.  Wriford,  a  little  surprise  in  his  tone:  "  Why, 
just  we  two." 

"  Hup! "  said  the  pear-shaped  gentleman,  said  it 
with  the  violence  of  one  caught  unawares  and  con- 
siderably startled,  and  then,  recovering  himself,  directed 
upon  Mr.  Wriford  the  same  jolly  smile  with  which  he 
had  first  greeted  him,  and  again  upraising  the  sausage, 
trolled  forth  very  deeply: 

"  O  all  ye  loonies  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord; 
praise  Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever." 

The  pear-shaped  gentleman  then  jumped  to  his  feet 
with  an  agility  very  conspicuous  in  one  of  his  girth,  and 
of  considerable  purpose,  in  that  he  had  no  sooner  ob- 
tained his  balance  on  his  feet  than  Mr.  Wriford  lost  his 
balance  upon  his  feet,  swayed  towards  the  arms  out- 
stretched to  him,  was  assisted  to  the  hedgeside,  and  there 
collapsed  with  a  groan  of  very  great  fatigue. 

The  pear-shaped  gentleman  on  his  knees,   busying 


ONE  IS   MET  6i 

himself  with  a  long  bottle  and  a  tin  can  taken  from  the 
grass,  with  a  clasp  knife,  the  cold  sausage,  and  the 
portion  of  bread:  "  I  will  have  that  groan  into  a  shout 
of  praise  before  I  am  an  hour  nearer  the  grave  or  I  am 
no  man.  Furthermore,"  continued  the  pear-shaped 
gentleman,  filhng  the  can  very  generously  and  assisting 
it  very  gently  to  Mr.  Wriford's  lips,  "  furthermore,  I 
will  have  no  man  groan  other  than  myself,  who  groaneth 
often  and  with  full  cause.  Your  groan  and  your  counte- 
nance betokeneth  much  misery,  and  I  will  not  be  bested 
by  any  man  either  in  misery  or  in  any  other  thing.  I 
will  run  you,  jump  you,  wrestle  you,  drink  you,  eat  you, 
whistle  you,  sing  you,  dance  you  —  I  will  take  you  or 
any  man  at  any  challenge;  and  this  I  will  do  with  you 
or  any  man  for  —  win  or  lose  —  three  fingers  of  whisky, 
the  which,  hup!  is  at  once  my  curse  and  my  sole  delight. 
Selah!  " 

As  he  dehvered  himself  of  these  remarkable  senti- 
ments, the  pear-shaped  gentleman  cut  from  the  sausage 
and  the  bread  the  portions  to  which  his  teeth  had  at- 
tended, conveyed  these  to  his  own  mouth,  which  again 
became  as  full  as  when  Mr.  Wriford  had  first  seen  it, 
and  pressed  the  remainders  upon  Mr.  Wriford  with  a 
cordiality  much  aided  by  his  jolly  speech  and  by  the 
tin  can  of  whisky  which  now  ran  very  warmly  through 
Mr.  Wriford's  veins.  These  combinations,  indeed,  and 
the  sight  and  then  the  taste  of  food  awakened  very 
ferociously  in  Mr.  Wriford  the  hunger  which  had  now 
for  two  days  been  gathering  within  him.  He  ate  hun- 
grily, and,  in  proportion  as  his  faintness  became  satis- 
fied, something  of  an  irresponsible  light-headedness  came 
to  him;  he  began  to  give  little  spurts  of  laughter  at  the 
whimsicality  of  the  pear-shaped  gentleman  and  for  the 


62  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

first  time  to  forget  the  presence  of  Figure  of  Wriford; 
he  accepted  with  no  more  reluctance  than  the  same 
nervous  humour  a  final  absurdity  which,  as  night  closed 
about  them,  and  as  his  meal  was  finished,  the  pear- 
shaped  gentleman  pressed  upon  him. 

"  I  can  hardly  keep  awake,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  and 
lay  back  against  the  hedge. 

The  pear-shaped  gentleman  answered  him  from  the 
darkness:  "Well,  this  is  where  we  sleep  —  a  softer 
couch  than  any  of  your  beds,  and  I  have  experienced 
every  sort.  The  painful  eructations  which,  to  my  great 
though  lawful  punishment,  my  proneness  for  the  whisky 
puts  upon  me,  are  now,  hup!  almost  abated,  and  I,  too, 
incHne  to  slumber." 

Mr.  Wriford  said  sleepily:  "  You've  been  awfully 
kind." 

"  I  have  conceived  a  fancy  for  you,"  said  the  pear- 
shaped  gentleman.  "  I  like  your  face,  boy.  I  call  you 
boy  because  you  are  youthful,  and  I  am  older  than  you: 
in  sin,  curse  me,  as  old  as  any  man.  I  also  call  you 
loony,  which  it  appears  to  me  you  are,  and  for  which  I 
like  you  none  the  worse.  As  an  offset  to  the  liberty, 
you  shall  call  me  by  any  term  you  please." 

Mr.  Wriford  scarcely  heard  him.  "  Well,  I'd  like  to 
know  your  name,"  said  he. 

"  Puddlebox,"  said  the  pear-shaped  gentleman;  and 
to  Mr.  Wriford's  little  spurt  of  sleepy  laughter  replied: 
*'  A  name  that  I  claim  to  be  all  my  own,  for  I  will  not 
be  beat  at  a  name,  nor  at  any  thing,  as  I  have  told  you, 
by  any  man." 

To  this  there  was  but  a  dreamy  sigh  from  Mr.  Wriford, 
and  Mr.  Puddlebox  inquired  of  him:   ''  Sleepy?  " 

"  Dog-tired,"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 


i 


ONE  IS  MET  63 

"  Happy?  " 

"  I'm  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  Well,  then,  you  are  much  better,  loony,"  said  Mr. 
Puddlebox.  He  then  put  out  a  hand  in  the  darkness, 
and  touching  Mr.  Wriford's  ribs,  obtained  his  fuller 
attention.  "  You  are  much  better,"  repeated  Mr. 
Puddlebox,  "  and  if  you  will  give  me  your  interest  for  a 
last  moment,  we  will  continue  in  praise  the  cure  which 
we  have  begun  very  satisfactorily  in  good  whisky,  cold 
sausage,  an«l  new  bread.  A  nightly  custom  of  mine 
which  I  suit  according  to  the  circumstances  and  in  which, 
being  suited  to  you,  you  shall  now  accompany  me." 

"  Well? "  said  Mr.  Wriford,  aroused,  and  laughed 
again  in  light-hearted  content.    "  Well?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  thusly,"  and  trolled 
forth  very  deeply  into  the  darkness: 

"  O  all  ye  loonies  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord; 
praise  Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever." 

"  Now  you,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox. 

Mr.  Wriford  protested  with  nervous  laughter:  "  It's 
too  ridiculous!  " 

"  It's  wonderfully  comforting,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox; 
and  Mr.  Wriford  laughed  again  and  in  a  voice  that 
contrasted  very  thinly  with  the  volume  of  Mr.  Puddle- 
box's  gave  forth  as  requested: 

"  O  all  ye  loonies  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord;  praise 
Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever." 

"  Scarcely  body  enough,"  adjudged  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
"  but  that  will  come  with  appreciation  of  its  value. 
Now  one  other,  and  this  time  touching  that  friend  of 
yours  whom  I  name  Spook.  We  have  starved  him  to  his 
great  undoing,  for  you  have  fed  while  he  has  hungered, 
and  his  bowels  are  already  weakened  upon  you.    We  will 


64  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

now  further  discomfort  him  with  praise.  This  time 
together  —  O  all  ye  Spooks.    Now,  th<en." 

"  It's  absurd,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  It's  too  ridicu- 
lous ";  but  in  the  midst  of  his  laughter  at  it  had  a 
sudden  return  to  Figure  of  Wriford  who  was  the  subject 
of  it  and  cried  out:  "  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  Oh,  what 
shall  I  do?  " 

"  Why,  there  you  go!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  There's 
the  necessity  of  it.  Fight  against  him,  boy.  Let  him 
not  beat  you,  nor  any  such.    Quick  now  —  O  all  ye  —  " 

And  Mr.  Wriford  groaned,  then  laughed  in  a  nervous 
little  spurt,  then  groaned  again,  then  weakly  quavered 
while  Mr.  Puddlebox  strongly  belled: 

"  O  all  ye  spooks  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord; 
praise  Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever." 

"  Feel  better?  "  questioned  Mr.  Puddlebox. 

In  the  darkness  only  some  stifled  sounds  answered 
him. 

"  Crying,  loony?  " 

Only  those  sounds. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  put  out  a  large  hand,  felt  for  Mr. 
Wriford 's  hands  and  clasped  it  upon  them.  "  Hold 
my  hand,  boy." 

Sleep  came  to  them. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FIGHTING   it:     TELLING   IT 

This  was  a  large,  fat,  kindly  and  protective  hand  in 
whose  comfort  Mr.  Wriford  slept,  beneath  which  he 
awoke,  and  whose  aid  he  was  often  to  enjoy  in  imme- 
diate days  to  come.  Yet  its  influence  over  him  was  by 
no  means  always  apparent.  Increasing  acquaintance 
with  Mr.  Puddlebox  was  needed  for  its  development, 
and  this  had  illustration  in  the  manner  of  his  first  sleep 
by  Mr.  Puddlebox's  side. 

Thus  at  first  Mr.  Wriford,  clutching  like  a  child  at  the 
hand  which  came  to  him  in  the  darkness,  and  no  little 
operated  upon  by  intense  fatigue,  by  the  whisky,  and 
by  the  meal  of  cold  sausage  and  bread,  slept  for  some 
hours  very  soundly  and  without  dreams.  Next  his 
state  became  troubled.  His  mind  grew  active  while 
yet  his  body  slept.  Very  disturbing  visions  were  pre- 
sented to  him,  and  beneath  them  he  often  moaned. 
They  rode  him  hard,  and  ridden  by  them  he  began  to 
find  his  unaccustomed  couch  first  comfortless  and  then 
distressing.  A  continuous,  tremendous,  and  rasping 
sound  began  to  mingle  with  and  to  be  employed  by  his 
visions.  He  sat  up  suddenly,  threw  off  Mr.  Puddlebox's 
hand  in  bewildered  fear  of  it,  then  saw  that  the  enor- 
mous raspings  proceeded  from  Mr.  Puddlebox's  nose 
and  open  mouth,  and  then  remembered,  and  then  saw 
Figure  of  Wriford  seated  before  him. 

6s 


66  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Mr.  Wriford  caught  terribly  at  his  breath  and  with 
the  action  drew  up  his  knees.  He  placed  his  elbows  on 
them  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  He  pressed 
his  fingers  together,  but  through  their  very  flesh  he  yet 
could  see  Figure  of  Wriford  quite  plainly,  grinning  at 
him.  Hatred  and  fear  gathered  in  Mr.  Wriford  amain. 
With  them  he  drew  up  all  the  fibres  of  his  body,  drew  his 
heels  closer  beneath  him,  prepared  to  spring  fiercely 
at  the  intolerable  presence,  then  suddenly  threw  his 
hands  from  him  and  at  the  other's  throat,  and  cried 
aloud  and  sprung. 

He  struggled.  He  fought.  Figure  of  Wriford  was 
screaming  at  him,  and  in  that  din,  and  in  the  din  of 
bursting  blood  v/ithin  his  brain,  he  heard  Mr.  Puddlebox 
also  shouting  at  him  strangely.  "  Glumph  him,  boy," 
Mr.  Puddlebox  shouted.  "  Glumph  him,  glumph  him!  " 
And  there  was  Mr.  Puddlebox  hopping  bulkily  about 
him  as  he  fought  and  struggled  and  staggered,  and  des- 
perately sickened,  and  desperately  strove  to  keep  his 
feet. 

"Help  me!"  choked  Mr.  Wriford.  "Help  me! 
Help  me!    Kill  him!    Kill!    Kill!" 

"  Kill  yourself!  "  came  Mr.  Puddlebox's  voice. 
"  You're  killing  yourself!  You're  killing  yourself !  Why, 
what  the  devil?  You're  fighting  yourself,  boy.  You're 
fighting  yourself .  Loose  him,  boy!  Loose  him!  You've 
got  him  beat!    Loose  him  now,  loose  him — Ooop!  " 

This  bitter  cry  of  "  Ooop!  "  unheeded  by  Mr.  Wriford, 
was  shot  out  of  agony  to  Mr.  Puddlebox's  black-booted 
foot,  upon  the  emerging  toes  of  which  Mr.  Wriford's 
heel  came  with  grinding  force.  "  Ooop!  "  bawled  Mr. 
Puddlebox  and  hopped  away  upon  the  shapely  brown 
boot,  the  other  foot  clutched  in  his  hands,  and  then 


FIGHTING  IT:    TELLING  IT  67 

"  Ooop!  "  again  —  "  Ooop!  Erp!  Blink!  "  For  there 
crashed  upon  his  nose  a  smashing  fist  of  Mr.  Wriford's 
arm,  and  down  he  went,  blood  streaming,  and  Mr. 
Wriford  atop  of  him,  and  Mr.  Wriford's  head  with  stun- 
ning force  against  a  telegraph  pole,  thence  to  an  ugly 
stone. 

Stillness  then  of  movement;  and  of  sounds  only 
immense  gurgling  and  snuffling  from  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
lamentably  engaged  upon  his  battered  nose. 

Mr.  Wriford  sat  up.  He  pressed  a  hand  to  his  head 
and  presently,  his  chest  heaving,  spoke  with  sobbing 
breaths.  "  You  might  have  helped  me,"  he  sobbed. 
"  You  might  have  helped  me." 

From  above  his  dripping  nose,  Mr.  Puddlebox  re- 
garded him  dolorously.    He  had  no  speech. 

"  You  might  have  helped  me,"  Mr.  Wriford  moaned. 

"  Glug,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  thickly.  "  Glug. 
Blink!  " 

"  When  you  saw  me  —  "  Mr.  Wriford  cried. 

"Glug,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  BUnk!  Helped 
you!  "  he  then  cried.  "  Why,  look  what  the  devil  I  have 
helped  you!  Glug.  If  I  have  bled  a  pint,  I  have  bled 
a  quart,  and  at  this  flood  I  shall  ungallon  myself  to 
death.  Glug.  Blink.  Why,  I  was  no  less  than  a  fool 
ever  to  come  near  you.  Might  have  helped  you! 
Glug!  " 

Mr.  Wriford's  common  politeness  came  to  him.  With 
some  apology  in  his  tone,  "  I  don't  know  how  you  got 
that,"  he  said.    "  I  only  —  " 

Mr.  Puddlebox,  very  woefully  from  behind  a  blood- 
red  cloth:  "  I  don't  know  how  I  shall  ever  get  over  it." 
But  he  was  by  now  a  little  better  of  it,  the  flow  somewhat 
staunched,  and  he  said  with  a  vexation  that  he  justified 


68  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

by  glances  at  the  soaking  cloth  between  dabs  of  it  at 
his  nose:  "  Why,  I  helped  you  in  all  I  could.  You 
fought  like  four  devils.  I  was  in  the  very  heart  of  it. 
I  —  " 

"  I  heard  you,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  "  shouting  *  Glumph 
him!  '  or  some  such  word.    It  was  no  help  to  —  " 

Mr.  Puddlebox  returned  crossly.  "  Glumph  him! 
Certainly  I  —  glug.  Blink!  There  it  is  off  again.  Glug. 
Certainly  I  shouted  glumph  him.  A  glumph  is  a  fat 
hit  —  a  hit  without  art  or  science,  and  the  only  sort  of 
which  I  am  capable,  or  you,  either,  as  I  saw  at  a  glance. 
Glug." 

"  I  was  fighting,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  I  was  being 
killed,  and  you  —  " 

"  Why,  I  was  being  killed  also,"  returned  Mr.  Puddle- 
box.  *' Look  at  my  foot.  Look  at  my  nose.  Fighting! 
Why,  there  never  was  such  senseless  fighting  —  never. 
Glug.  Blink!  Why,  beyond  that  you  fought  with  me 
whenever  I  came  near  you,  who  to  the  devil  do  you 
think  you  were  fighting  with?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  looked  at  him  with  very  troubled  eyes. 
After  a  Uttle  while,  "  Why,  tell  me  whom,"  he  said.  "  I 
want  to  know."  His  voice  ran  up  and  he  cried:  "  It's 
not  right!    I  want  to  know." 

"  Why,  loony,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  kindly,  suddenly 
losing  his  heat  and  his  vexation,  "  why,  loony,  you  were 
fighting  yourself." 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Wriford  answered  him  hopelessly.  "  Yes. 
That's  it.  Myself  that  follows  me,"  and  he  moaned  and 
wrung  his  hands,  rocking  himself  where  he  sat. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  supported  his  nose  with  his  blood-red 
cloth  and  waddled  to  Mr.  Wriford  on  his  knees.  He  sat 
himself  on  his  heels  and  wagged  a  grave  finger  before 


FIGHTING  IT:    TELLING  IT  69 

Mr.  Wriford's  face.  "  Now  look  here,  boy,"  said  Mr. 
Puddlebox.  "  When  I  say  you,  I  mean  you  —  that 
you,"  and  he  dug  the  finger  at  Mr.  Wriford's  chest. 
"  When  I  say  fought  yourself,  I  mean  your  own  hands 
—  tJwse  hands,  at  your  own  throat  —  that  throat." 

Mr.  Puddlebox  spoke  so  impressively,  looking  so 
strongly  and  yet  so  kindly  at  Mr.  Wriford,  that  great 
wonder  and  trouble  came  into  Mr.  Wriford's  eyes,  and 
he  put  his  fingers  to  his  throat,  that  was  red  and  scarred 
and  tender,  and  said  wonderingly,  doubtfully,  pitifully: 
"  Do  you  mean  that  I  did  this  to  myself  —  with  my  own 
hands?  " 

"  Why,  certainly  I  do,"  returned  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
"  and  with  your  own  hands  this  to  my  nose.  Why,  I 
awoke  with  a  kick  that  you  gave  me,  and  there  you  were, 
dancing  over  there  with  sometimes  your  hands  squeezing 
the  life  out  of  yourself,  black  in  the  face,  and  your  eyes 
like  to  drop  out,  and  sometimes  your  hands  smashing 
at  nothing  except  when  they  smashed  me,  and  screaming 
at  the  top  of  your  voice,  and  your  feet  staggering  and 
plunging  —  why,  you  were  like  to  have  torn  yourself 
to  bits,  but  that  you  fell,  and  the  pole  here  knocked 
sense  into  you.  Like  this  you  had  yourself,"  and  Mr. 
Puddlebox  took  his  throat  in  his  hands  in  illustration, 
"  and  shook  yourself  so,"  and  shook  his  head  violently 
and  ended  "  Glug.  Curse  me.  I've  started  it  again. 
Glug,"  and  mopped  his  nose  anew. 

Mr.  Wriford  said  in  horror,  more  to  himself  than 
aloud:    "  Why,  that's  madness!  " 

"  Why  —  glug,  bHnk!  "  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  Why, 
that's  what  it  will  be  if  you  let  it  run,  boy.  That's  what 
will  be,  if  you  are  by  yourself,  which  you  shall  not  be, 
for  I  Hke  your  face,  and  I  will  teach  you  to  glumph  it 


70  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

out  of  you.  This  is  a  spook  that  you  think  you  see,  and 
that  is  why  I  call  you  loony,  and  it  is  no  more  a  real 
thing  than  the  several  things  I  see  when  the  whisky  is 
in  me,  as  I  have  taught  myself  —  glug,  I  shall  bleed  to 
death  —  as  I  have  taught  myself  to  know,  and  as  I 
shall  teach  you.  Wherefore  we  are  henceforward  com- 
rades, for  you  are  not  fit  to  take  care  of  yourself  till 
this  thing  is  out  of  you.  We  shall  now  breakfast,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Puddlebox,  beginning  with  one  hand,  the 
other  kept  very  gingerly  to  his  nose,  to  feel  towards  his 
bundle  on  the  grass,  "  and  you  shall  tell  me  who  you 
are,  and  why  you  are  spooked,  first  unspooking  your- 
self, as  last  night,  with  praise.  Come  now,  we  will  have 
them  both  together  —  O  ye  loonies  and  spooks  —  "  '^' 

"  I  won't!  "  said  Mr.  Wriford.  He  sat  with  his  hands 
to  his  chin,  his  knees  drawn  up,  wrestling  in  a  fevered 
mind  with  what  facts  came  out  of  Mr.  Puddlebox's 
jargon.    "  I  won't!  " 

"  It  is  very  comforting,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  not  at 
all  offended.    "  Try  breakfast  first,  then." 

"  Oh,  let  me  alone,"  cried  Mr.  Wriford.  "  I  don't 
want  breakfast." 

"  I  do,"  returned  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  The  more  so 
that  I  have  lost  vast  blood.  There  is  enough  whisky 
here  to  invigorate  me,  yet,  under  Providence,  not  to 
plague  me  with  the  hiccoughs.  Also  good  cold  bacon. 
Come,  boy,  cold  bacon." 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  Mr.  Wriford  said. 

"  More  for  me,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  and  I  want 
much.  While  I  eat,  you  shall  tell  me  how  you  come  to 
be  loony,  and  I  will  then  tell  you  how  I  come  to  be  what 
I  am.  And  I  will  tell  a  better  story  than  you  or  than  any 
man.    Come  now!  " 


FIGHTING  IT:    TELLING   IT  71 

An  immense  bite  of  the  cold  bacon  then  went  to  Mr. 
Puddlebox's  mouth,  and  Mr.  Wriford,  looking  up, 
found  himself  so  jovially  and  affectionately  beamed  upon 
through  the  bite,  that  he  suddenly  turned  towards  Mr. 
Puddlebox  and  said:  "  I'll  tell  you.  I'd  like  to  tell 
you.  You've  been  very  kind  to  me.  I've  never  said 
thank  you.    I'm  ill.    I  don't  know  what  I  am." 

Gratified  sounds  from  Mr.  Puddlebox's  distended 
mouth  —  inarticulate  for  the  cold  bacon  that  impeded 
them,  but  sufficiently  interpreted  by  quick  nods  of  the 
funny  little  round  head  and  by  smiles. 

"  It's  very  strange  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  in  a  low 
voice,  "  to  be  sitting  here  like  this  and  talking  to  you. 
I  don't  know  how  I  do  it.  A  little  while  ago  I  was  in 
London,  and  I  couldn't  have  done  it  then.  I  never 
spoke  to  anybody  that  I  could  help  —  I  remember  that. 
I  say  I  can  remember  that,  because  there  are  a  lot  of 
things  I  can't  remember.  I've  been  like  that  a  long 
time.  I've  never  told  anybody  before.  I  don't  know 
how  I  tell  you  now  —  I  said  that  just  now,  didn't  I?  " 
and  Mr.  Wriford  stopped  and  looked  at  Mr.  Puddlebox 
in  a  puzzled  way. 

Mr.  Puddlebox,  cheeks  much  distended,  first  shook 
his  head  very  vigorously  and  then  as  vigorously 
nodded  it.  This  thoughtfully  left  it  to  Mr.  Wriford  to 
choose  whichever  distressed  him  less,  and  he  said:  *'  In 
the  middle  of  thinking  of  a  thing  it  goes."  There  was  a 
rather  pitiful  note  in  Mr.  Wriford's  voice,  and  he  sat 
dejectedly  in  silence.  When  next  he  spoke,  he  shook 
himself,  and  as  though  the  action  shook  off  his  former 
mood,  he  said  excitedly,  bending  forward  towards  Mr. 
Puddlebox:  "Look  here,  I've  never  done  things!  I've 
been  shut  up.    I've  had  things  to  look  after.    I've  never 


72  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

been  ablft  to  rest.  I've  never  been  able  to  be  quiet. 
There's  always  been  something  else.  There's  always 
been  something  all  round  me,  like  walls  —  oh,  like 
walls!  Always  getting  closer.  I've  never  been  able  to 
stop.  No  peace.  There's  always  been  some  trouble  — 
something  to  think  about  that  grinds  me  up,  and  in  the 
middle  of  it  something  else.  There's  always  been  some- 
thing hunting  me.  Always  something,  and  always 
something  else  waiting  behind  that.  Like  walls,  closer 
and  closer.  I  never  could  get  away.  I  tell  you,  every 
one  I  ever  met  had  something  for  me  that  kept  me.  I 
wanted  to  scream  at  them  to  let  me  alone.  I  never 
could  get  away.  I  was  shut  up.  I'm  a  writer.  I  write 
newspapers  and  books.  People  know  me  —  people  who 
write.  I  hate  them  all.  I've  often  looked  at  people  and 
hated  everybody.  They  look  at  me  and  see  what  I  am 
and  laugh  at  me.  They  know  I'm  frightened  of  them. 
I'm  frightened  because  I've  been  shut  up,  and  that's 
made  me  different  from  other  people.  I'm  a  writer. 
I've  made  much  more  money  than  I  want.  I've  looked 
at  people  in  trains  and  places  and  known  I  could  have 
bought  them  all  up  ten  times  over.  And  the  money's 
never  been  any  use  to  me  —  not  when  you're  shut  up, 
not  when  there's  always  something  else,  not  when  you're 
always  trembling.  I  never  can  make  people  understand. 
They  don't  know  I'm  shut  up.  They  don't  see  that 
there's  always  something  else.    They  think  —  " 

Mr.  Wriford  stopped  and  looked  again  in  a  puzzled 
way  at  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  then  said  apologetically: 
"  I  don't  know  how  I've  come  here.  I  don't  understand 
it  just  at  present.  I'll  think  of  it  in  a  minute;  "  and 
then  broke  out  suddenly  and  very  fiercely:  "  But  I 
tell  you,  although  you  say  it  isn't,  and  God  only  knows 


FIGHTING  IT:    TELLING  IT  73 

why  you  should  interfere  or  what  it's  got  to  do  with 
you,  I  tell  you  that  I've  had  myself  walking  with  me 
and  want  to  kill  it.  And  I  will  kill  it!  It's  done  things  to 
me.  It's  kept  me  down.  I  hate  it.  It's  been  me  for  a 
long  time.  But  it  isn't  me!  I'm  different.  I  can  look 
back  when  you  never  knew  me,  and  God  knows  how 
different  I've  been  —  young  and  happy!  I  want  to  die. 
If  you  want  to  know,  though  what  the  devil  it's  got  to 
do  with  —  I  want  to  die,  die,  die!  I  want  to  get  out 
of  it  all.  Yes,  now  I  remember.  That's  it.  I  want  to 
get  out  of  it  all.  Everything's  all  round  me,  close  to  me. 
I  can  scarcely  breathe.  I  want  to  get  out  of  it.  I've 
been  in  it  long  enough.  I  want  to  smash  it  all  up.  Smash 
it  with  my  hands  to  blazes.  My  name's  Wriford.  If 
you  don't  believe  it,  you  can  ask  any  one  in  London 
who  knows  about  newspapers  and  books,  and  they'll 
tell  you.  I'm  Wriford,  and  I  want  to  get  out  of  it  all. 
I  want  to  kill  myself  and  get  away  alone.  I  won't  have 
myself  with  me  any  longer!  Damn  him,  he's  a  vile 
devil,  and  he  isn't  me  at  all.  I'm  Wriford!  Good  Lord, 
before  I  began  all  this,  I  used  to  be  —  He's  a  vile, 
cowardly  devil.  I  want  to  get  away  from  him  and  get 
away  by  myself.  I  want  to  smash  it  all  up.  With  my 
hands  I  want  to  smash  it  and  get  away  alone  —  alone;  " 
and  then  Mr.  Wriford  stopped  with  chest  heaving  and 
with  burning  eyes,  and  then  tore  open  his  coat  and  then 
his  shirt,  as  though  his  body  burned  and  he  would  have 
the  air  upon  it. 

All  this  time  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  been  champing 
steadily  with  mouth  prodigiously  filled.  Now  he  washed 
down  last  fragments  of  cold  bacon  with  last  dregs  of 
good  whisky  and,  with  no  sort  of  comment  upon  Mr. 
Wriford's  story  or  condition,  announced:   "  Now  I  will 


74  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

tell  you  my  story.  That's  fair.  Then  we  shall  know 
each  other  as  comrades  should;  which,  as  I  have  said, 
we  are  to  be  henceforward  and  until  I  have  unspooked 
you.  Furthermore,  as  I  also  said,  I  will  tell  a  better 
story  than  you  —  yes,  or  than  any  man,  for  I  will  take 
you  or  any  man  at  any  thing  and  give  best  to  none. 
Selah." 


CHAPTER  VII 

HEARING   IT 

"  My  name  is  Puddlebox,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  He 
settled  his  back  comfortably  against  the  hedge  and 
looked  with  a  very  bright  eye  at  Mr.  Wriford,  who  sat 
bowed  before  him  and  who  at  this  beginning,  and  catch- 
ing Mr.  Puddlebox's  merry  look,  shook  himself  impa- 
tiently and  averted  his  eyes,  that  were  pained  and 
troubled,  to  the  ground,  as  though  he  would  hear  noth- 
ing of  it  and  wished  to  be  wrapped  in  his  own  concerns. 

Not  at  all  discouraged,  "  My  name  is  Puddlebox," 
Mr.  Puddlebox  continued.  "  I  was  born  many  highly 
virtuous  years  ago  in  the  ancient  town  of  Hitchin,  which 
lies  not  far  from  us  as  we  sit.  My  father  was  an  iron- 
monger, of  good  business  and  held  in  high  esteem  by 
all  who  knew  him.  My  mother  was  an  ironer,  and  love, 
which,  as  I  have  marked,  will  make  use  of  any  bond, 
perhaps  attracted  these  two  by  medium  of  the  iron  upon 
which  each  depended  for  livelihood.  My  mother  sang 
in  the  choir  of  her  chapel,  and  my  father,  who  some- 
times preached  there,  has  told  me  that  she  presented  a 
very  holy  and  beautiful  picture  as  the  sun  streamed 
through  the  window  and  fell  upon  her  while  she  hymned. 
Here  again,"  continued  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  the  ingenuity 
of  love  is  to  be  observed,  for  this  same  sunlight,  though 
it  adorned  my  mother,  also  incommoded  her,  and  my 
father,  in  his  capacity  as  ironmonger,  was  called  upon  to 

75 


76  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

fit  a  blind  for  her  greater  convenience.  This  led  to  their 
acquaintance  and,  in  process  of  lawful  time,  to  me  whom 
they  named  Eric.  Little  Eric.  Five  followed  me.  I 
was  the  eldest,  and  the  most  dutiful,  of  six.  Offspring 
of  God-fearing  parents,  I  was  brought  up  in  the  paths 
of  diligence  and  rectitude  —  trained  in  the  way  I  should 
go  and  from  my  earliest  years  pursued  that  way  without 
giving  my  parents  one  single  moment's  heart-burning 
or  doubt.  I  was,  and  I  have  ever  been,  a  little  ray  of 
sunshine  in  their  Hves." 

"  You're  a  tramp,  aren't  you?  "  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

On  the  previous  evening  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  in- 
duced in  Mr.  Wriford  a  mood  in  which  his  griefs  had 
disappeared  before  little  spurts  of  involuntary  laughter. 
The  same,  arising  out  of  Mr.  Puddlebox's  whimsical 
narration  of  his  grotesque  story,  threatened  him  now, 
and  he  resisted  it.  He  resisted  it  as  a  vexed  child,  made 
to  laugh  despite  himself,  seeks  by  cross  yet  half-laughing 
rejoinders  to  preserve  his  ill-humour  and  not  be  wheedled 
out  of  it. 

"You're  a  tramp,  aren't  you?"  said  Mr.  Wriford; 
but  Mr.  Puddlebox,  with  no  notice  of  the  interruption, 
continued:  "  A  little  ray  of  sunshine.  My  dear  parents 
in  time  sent  me  to  school.  Here,  by  my  diligence  and 
aptitude,  I  brought  at  once  great  shame  upon  my  elder 
classmates  and  great  pride  to  the  little  parlour  behind 
the  ironmonger's  shop.  It  became  furnished,  that 
pleasant  parlour,  with  my  prize-books,  and  decorated 
with  my  medals  and  certificates  of  punctuality  and 
good  conduct.  As  I  grew  older,  so  the  ray  of  sunshine 
which  I  effulged  waxed  brighter  and  warmer.  My 
father,  encouraged  and  advised  by  my  teachers,  offered 
me  the  choice  of  many  lucrative  and  gentlemanly  pro- 


HEARING  IT  77 

fessions.  It  was  suggested  that  I  should  embrace  a  few 
of  the  many  scholarships  that  were  at  the  easy  com- 
mand of  my  abilities  and  my  industry,  proceed  to  the 
University,  and  become  pedagogue,  pastor,  or  lawyer. 
I  well  remember,  amd  I  remember  it  with  pride  and 
happiness,  the  grateful  minghng  of  my  parents'  tears 
when  I  announced  that  I  spurned  these  attractions, 
desiring  only  to  be  apprenticed  to  my  dear  father's 
business,  perpetuate  the  grand  old  name  of  Puddlebox, 
ironmonger,  Hitchin,  and  become  the  prop  and  com- 
fort of  the  evening  of  my  parents'  years. 

"  This  was  the  time,"  proceeded  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
'*  when,  in  common  with  all  youth,  I  was  subjected  to 
the  temptations  of  gross  and  idle  companions.  As  I 
had  shamed  my  classmates  at  school,  so  I  shamed  my 
would-be  betrayers  in  the  street.  They  called  me  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  public-house.  I  pointed  to  the  blue- 
ribbon  badge  of  my  pledges  against  intoxicating  liquors. 
They  enticed  me  to  ribaldry,  to  card-pla>T[ng,  to  laughter 
with  dangerous  women.  I  openly  rebuked  them  and 
besought  them  for  their  own  good  instead  to  sit  with 
me  of  an  evening,  while  I  read  aloud  from  devotional 
works  to  my  dear  parents.  My  spare  time  I  devoted 
to  my  Sunday-school  class,  to  the  instruction  of  my 
younger  brothers  and  sisters,  and  to  profitable  reading. 
My  recreation  took  the  form  of  adorning  our  chapel 
with  the  arts  of  turnery  and  joinery  which  I  had  learnt 
together  with  that  of  pure  ironmongery." 

All  this  was  more  and  more  punctuated  with  spurts 
of  laughter  from  Mr.  Wriford,  and  now,  laughing  openly, 
"  Well,  when  did  all  this  stop?  "  he  said. 

"  It  never  stopped,"  returned  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  A 
calamitous  incident  diverted  it  to  another  train;    that 


78  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

is  all.  Five  sovereigns,  nine  shillings,  and  fourpence 
were  one  day  found  to  be  missing  from  the  till.  It 
was  in  the  till  when  the  shop  was  shut  at  seven  o'clock 
one  Saturday  night,  and  it  was  out  of  the  till  when  my 
father  went  to  transfer  it  to  the  cash-box  at  eight 
o'clock.  We  kept  no  servant.  No  stranger  had  entered 
the  house.  The  theft  lay  with  one  of  my  brothers  and 
sisters.  My  father's  passion  was  terrible  to  witness. 
That  a  child  of  his  should  rob  his  own  father  produced 
in  him  a  paroxysm  of  wrath  such  as  even  I,  well  knowing 
his  sternly  rehgious  nature,  did  not  beheve  him  capable 
of.  With  shaking  voice  he  demanded  of  my  brothers 
and  sisters  severally  and  collectively  who  had  brought 
this  shame  upon  him.  All  denied  it,  I  was  in  an  ad- 
joining room  —  as  horrified  and  as  trembling  as  my 
father.  I  knew  the  culprit.  I  had  seen  a  Puddlebox  — 
a  Puddlebox!  —  with  his  hand  in  his  father's  till.  My 
long  discipline  in  virtue  and  in  filial  and  fraternal  devo- 
tion told  me  at  once  what  I  must  do.  I  must  shield 
the  culprit;   I  must  take  the  blame  upon  myself." 

"  Why?  "  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  I  did  not  hesitate  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
disregarding  the  question.  "  Breathing  a  rapid  prayer 
for  my  dear  ones'  protection  and  for  the  forgiveness  of 
the  culprit,  I  turned  instantly  and  fled  from  the  house. 
I  have  never  seen  my  parents  since.  I  have  never  again 
revisited  the  ancestral  home  of  the  Puddleboxes.  Yet 
am  I  content  and  would  not  have  it  otherwise,  for  I  am 
happy  in  the  knowledge  that  I  have  saved  the  culprit. 
Since  then,  I  have  devoted  my  life  over  a  wider  area  to 
the  good  works  which  formerly  I  practised  within  the 
municipal  boundaries  of  beloved  Hitchin.  I  tour  the 
countryside  in   a   series   of  carefully  planned   ambits, 


HEARING   IT  79 

seeking,  by  ministration  to  the  sick  and  needy,  to  shed 
light  and  happiness  wherever  I  go,  supporting  myself 
by  those  habits  of  diligence  and  sobriety  which  became 
rooted  in  me  in  my  childhood's  years.  You  say  your 
name  is  Wriford,  and  that  you  are  of  repute  in  London. 
My  name  is  Puddlebox,  and  I  am  known,  respected,  and 
welcomed  in  a  hundred  villages,  boroughs,  and  urban 
districts.  Now  that  is  my  story,"  concluded  Mr. 
Puddlebox,  "  and  I  challenge  you  to  say  that  yours  is  a 
better." 

Mr.  Wriford  was  by  this  time  completely  won  out  of 
the  fierce  and  tumultuous  thoughts  that  had  possessed 
him  when  Mr.  Puddlebox  began.  His  little  spurts  of 
involuntary  laughter  had  become  more  frequent  and 
more  openly  daring  as  Mr.  Puddlebox  proceeded,  and 
now,  quite  given  over  to  a  nervously  light-headed  state 
such  as  may  be  produced  in  one  by  incessant  tickling, 
he  laughed  outright  and  declared:  "  I  don't  beheve  a 
word  of  it!  " 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  merrier  than  ever  in 
the  eye,  and  speaking  with  a  curious  note  of  triumph  as 
though  this  were  precisely  what  he  had  been  aiming  at, 
'*  Well,  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  yours!  " 

"  Mine's  true,"  cried  Mr.  Wriford,  quick  and  sharp, 
and  got  indignantly  to  his  feet.  Habit  of  thought  of 
the  kind  that  had  helped  work  his  destruction  in  him 
jumped  at  him  at  this,  as  he  took  it,  flat  insult  to  his 
face,  and  in  the  old  way  set  him  surging  in  head  and 
heart  at  the  slight  to  his  dignity.  "  Mine's  true!  "  he 
cried  and  looked  down  hotly  at  Mr.  Puddlebox. 

"  And  mine's  as  true,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  equably 
and  giving  him  only  the  same  merry  eye. 

Mr.  Wriford,  heaving:    "Why,  you  said  yourself  — 


8o  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

only  last  night  —  that  whisky  was  your  curse.  You've 
told  me  a  lot  of  rubbish;  you  couldn't  have  meant  it  for 
anything  else.  I've  told  you  facts.  What  don't  you 
beheve?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  any  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  and 
at  Mr.  Wriford's  start  and  choke,  added  quickly:  "  as 
you  tell  it." 

One  of  those  sudden  blanks,  one  of  those  sudden 
snappings  of  the  train  of  thought  —  click!  like  an  actual 
snapping  in  the  brain  —  came  to  Mr.  Wriford.  One 
of  those  floodings  about  his  mind  of  immense  and 
whirling  darkness  in  which  desperately  his  mental  eye 
sought  to  peer,  and  desperately  his  mental  hands  to 
grope.  He  tried  to  remember  what  it  was  that  he  had 
told  Mr.  Puddlebox.  He  tried  to  search  back  among 
recent  moments  that  he  could  remember  —  or  thought 
he  remembered  —  for  words  he  must  have  spoken  but 
could  not  recollect.  His  indignation  at  Mr.  Puddlebox's 
refusal  to  believe  him  disappeared  before  this  anguish 
and  the  trembling  that  it  gave.  He  made  an  effort  to 
hold  his  own,  not  to  betray  himself,  and  with  it  cried 
indignantly:  "  Well,  what  did  I  say?  "  then,  unable  to 
sustain  it,  abandoned  himself  to  the  misery  and  the 
helplessness,  and  used  again  the  same  words,  but  piti- 
ably. "Well,  what  did  I  say?"  Mr.  Wriford  asked 
and  caught  his  breath  in  a  sob. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  put  that  large,  soft,  fat,  kindly  and 
protective  hand  against  Mr.  Wriford's  leg  that  stood 
over  him  and  pulled  on  the  trouser.  "  Now,  look  here, 
boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  very  soothingly,  "  sit  here  by 
me,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  you  said,  and  we  will  put 
this  to  the  rights  of  it." 

Very  dejectedly  Mr.  Wriford  sat  down;    very  pro- 


HEARING  IT  8i 

tectively  Mr.  Puddlebox  put  the  large  hand  on  his 
knee  and  patted  it.  "  Now,  look  here,  my  loony,"  said 
Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  I'll  tell  you  what  you  said,  and  what 
I  mean  by  saying  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it  as  you  tell 
it.  What  I  mean,  my  loony,  is  that  there's  one  thing 
the  same  in  your  story  and  in  mine,  and  it  is  the  same 
in  every  story  that  I  hear  from  folks  along  the  road, 
and  I  challenge  you  or  any  man  to  hear  as  many  as  I 
have  heard.  It  is  that  we've  both  been  glumphed,  boy. 
We've  both  led  beautiful,  virtuous  lives  and  ought  to 
be  angels  with  beautiful  wings  —  'stead  of  which,  here 
we  are:  glumphed;  folks  have  got  up  and  given  us  fat 
hits  and  glumphed  us. 

"  Well,  there's  two  ways,"  continued  Mr.  Puddlebox 
with  great  good  humour,  "  there's  two  ways  of  telling 
a  glumphed  story,  my  loony:  the  way  of  the  glumphed, 
which  I  have  told  to  you,  and  the  way  of  the  glumpher, 
which  I  now  shall  tell  you.  Take  my  story  first,  boy. 
Glumphed,  which  is  me,  tells  you  of  a  child  and  a  boy 
and  a  youth  which  was  the  pride  and  the  comfort  and 
the  support  of  his  parents;  glumphers,  which  is  they, 
would  tell  you  I  was  their  shame  and  their  despair. 
Glumphed:  diligent,  shaming  his  classmates,  adorning 
the  parlour  with  prize-books;  glumphers:  never  learn- 
ing but  beneath  the  strap,  idle,  disobedient.  Glumphed: 
spurning  companions  who  would  entice  him ;  glumphers : 
leading  companions  astray.  Glumphed:  putting  away 
nobler  callings  and  desirous  only  to  serve  his  father  in 
the  shop;  glumphers:  wasting  his  parents'  savings  that 
would  educate  him  for  the  ministry,  and  of  the  shop 
sick  and  ashamed.  Glumphed:  reading  devotional 
books  to  his  mother;  glumphers:  breaking  her  heart. 
Glumphed:   knowing  the  culprit  who  robbed  his  father 


82  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

and  fleeing  to  save  him;  glumphers:  himself  the  thief 
and  running  away  from  home.  Glumphed:  journeying 
the  countryside  in  good  works  and  everywhere  respected ; 
glumphers:  a  tramp  and  a  vagabond,  plagued  with 
whisky  and  everywhere  known  to  the  police. 

''  There's  a  difference  for  you,  boy,"  concluded  Mr. 
Puddlebox;  and  he  had  recited  it  all  so  comically  as 
once  again  to  bring  Mr.  Wriford  out  of  dejection  and 
set  him  to  the  mood  of  little  spurts  of  laughter. 
"  Glumphed,"  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  said,  raising  one 
fat  hand  to  represent  that  individual  and  speaking  for 
him  in  a  very  high  squeak;  and  then  "  glumphers  "  with 
the  other  fat  hand  brought  forward  and  his  voice  a  very 
sepulchral  bass.  Now  he  turned  his  merry  eyes  full 
upon  Mr.  Wriford:  and  IVIr.  Wriford  met  them  laugh- 
ingly and  laughed  aloud. 

"  I  see  what  you're  driving  at,"  Mr.  Wriford  laughed; 
"  but  it  doesn't  apply  to  me,  you  know.  You  don't 
suppose  I've  —  er  —  robbed  tills,  or  —  well  —  done 
your  kind  of  thing,  do  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you've  done,"  said  Mr.  Puddle- 
box. "  But  this  I  do  know,  that  your  story  is  the  same 
as  my  story,  and  the  same  as  everybody's  story,  in  this 
way  that  you've  never  done  anything  wrong  in  your 
life,  and  that  all  your  troubles  are  what  other  folks  — 
glumphers  —  have  done  to  you.  Well,  whoa,  my  loony, 
whoa!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox,  observing  protest  and 
indignation  blackening  again  on  Mr.  Wriford's  face. 
"  The  difference  in  your  case  is  that  what  you've  done 
and  think  you  haven't  done  has  spooked  you,  boy,  and 
now  I  will  tell  you  how  you  are  spooked,  and  how  I 
will  unspook  you.  You  think  too  much  about  yourself, 
boy.    That's  what  is  spooking  you.    You  think  about 


HEARING  IT  83 

yourself  until  you've  come  to  see  yourself  and  to  be 
followed  by  yourself.  Well,  you've  got  to  get  away 
from  yourself.  That's  what  you  want,  boy  —  you 
know  that?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  followed,"  Mr.  Wriford  cried.  He  clutched 
at  Mr.  Puddlebox's  last  words;  and,  at  the  understand- 
ing that  seemed  to  be  in  them,  forgot  all  else  that  had 
been  said  and  cried  entreatingly :  "  I'm  followed,  fol- 
lowed! " 

"  I  will  shake  him  off,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  You 
want  to  get  away?  " 

"  I  must!  "  said  Mr.  Wriford.    ''  I  must!  " 

"  And  you  don't  mind  what  happens  to  you?  " 

"  I  don't  mind  anything." 

"  Why,  then,  cheer  up,"  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  with  a 
sudden  infectious  burst  of  spirits,  "  for  I  don't,  either; 
and  so  there  are  two  of  us,  and  the  world  is  full  of  fun 
for  those  who  mind  nothing.  I  will  teach  you  to  sing, 
and  I  will  teach  you  to  find  in  everything  measure  for 
my  song,  which  is  of  praise  and  which  is : 

"  O  ye  world  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord;  praise 
Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever. 

"  Up,  my  loony,  and  I  will  teach  you  to  forget  your- 
self, which  is  what  is  the  matter  with  you  and  with 
most  of  us." 

Mr.  Puddlebox  with  these  words  got  very  nimbly  to 
his  feet,  and  there  took  Mr.  Wriford  a  sudden  infection 
of  Mr.  Puddlebox's  spirits,  which  made  him  also  jump 
up  and  stand  with  this  jolly  and  pear-shaped  figure  who 
minded  nothing,  and  look  at  him  and  laugh  in  irrespon- 
sible glee.  Mr.  Puddlebox  wore  a  very  long  and  very 
large  tail-coat,  in  the  pockets  of  which  he  now  began  to 
stuff  his  empty  bottle,  a  spare  boot,  what  appeared  to 


84  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

be  a  shirt  in  which  other  articles  were  rolled,  and  sundry- 
other  packets  which  he  picked  up  from  the  grass  about 
him.  Upon  his  head  he  wore  a  hard  felt  hat  whose  rim 
was  gone,  so  that  it  sat  upon  him  like  an  inverted  basin; 
and  about  his  considerable  waist  he  now  proceeded  to 
wind  a  great  length  of  string.  He  presented,  when  his 
preparations  were  done,  so  completely  odd  and  so  jolly 
a  figure  that  Mr.  Wriford  laughed  aloud  again  and  felt 
run  through  him  a  surge  of  reckless  irresponsibility; 
and  Mr.  Puddlebox  laughed  in  return,  loud  and  long, 
and  looking  down  the  hill  observed:  "  We  will  now 
leave  this  place  of  blood  and  wounds  and  almost  of  un- 
seemly quarrel.  Ascending  towards  us  I  observe  a 
wagon,  stoutly  horsed.  We  wdll  attach  ourselves  to 
the  back  of  it  and  place  ourselves  entirely  at  its  dis- 
posal; first  greeting  the  wagoner  in  song,  for  the  very 
juice  of  life  is  to  be  extracted  by  finding  matter  for 
praise  in  all  things.  Now,  then,  when  he  reaches  us  — 
*  O  ye  wagoners  — ^  '  " 

The  wagon  reached  them.  Piled  high  with  sacks,  it 
was  drawn  by  three  straining  horses  and  driven  by  a 
very  burly  gentleman  who  sat  on  a  seat  above  his  team 
and  midway  up  the  sacks  and  scowled  very  blackly  at 
the  pair  who  awaited  him  and  who,  as  he  drew  abreast, 
gave  him,  Mr.  Puddlebox  with  immense  volume  and 
Mr.  Wriford  with  gleeful  irresponsibility: 

"  O  ye  wagoners  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord; 
praise  Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever!  " 

The  wagoner's  reply  was  to  spit  upon  the  ground  for 
the  singers'  benefit  and  very  brutally  to  lash  his  team 
for  his  own.  The  horses  strained  into  a  frightened  and 
ungainly  plunging,  and  the  wagon  lumbered  ahead. 
Mr.    Puddlebox   plunged   after   it,   and   Mr.   Wriford, 


HEARING  IT  85 

with  light-headed  squirms  of  laughter,  after  Mr.  Puddle- 
box.  The  tail-board  of  the  wagon  was  not  high  above 
the  road.  In  a  very  short  space  Mr.  Wriford  was  seated 
upon  it  and  then  clutching  and  hauling  in  assistance  of 
the  prodigious  bounds  and  scrambles  with  which,  at 
last,  Mr.  Puddlebox  also  effected  the  climb. 
And  so  away,  with  dangling  legs. 


BOOK  TWO 
ONE    OF    THE    JOLLY    ONES 


BOOK  TWO 
ONE  OF  THE  JOLLY  ONES 

CHAPTER  I 

INTENTIONS,   BEFORE  HAVING  HIS  HAIR  CUT,   OF  A 
WAGONER 

In  this  company,  and  with  this  highly  appropriate 
beginning  of  legs  dangling  carelessly  above  the  dusty 
highroad  from  a  stolen  seat  on  the  tail-board  of  a  wagon, 
there  began  to  befall  Mr.  Wriford  many  adventures 
which,  peculiar  and  unusual  for  any  man,  were,  for  one 
of  Mr.  Wriford's  station  in  life  and  of  his  character 
and  antecedents,  in  the  highest  degree  extraordinary. 
His  dangling  legs  —  and  the  fact  that  he  swung  them 
as  they  dangled  —  were,  indeed,  emblematic  of  the 
frame  of  mind  which  took  him  into  these  adventures 
and  which  —  save  when  the  old  torments  clutched  him 
and  held  him  —  carried  him  through  each  and  very 
irresponsibly  into  the  next.  Through  all  the  later 
years  of  his  former  life  he  had  very  much  cared  what 
happened  to  him  and  what  people  thought  of  him  when, 
they  looked  at  him.  He  was  filled  now  with  a  spirit 
of  not  caring  at  all.  It  was  more  than  a  reckless  spirit; 
it  was  a  conscious  spirit.    He  had  often,  in  the  days  of 


90  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

his  torment,  cried  aloud  that  he  wished  he  might  die. 
He  told  himself  now  that  he  did  not  mind  if  he  did  die, 
and  did  not  mind  if  he  was  hurt  or  what  suffering  befell 
him.    Through  all  the  later  years  of  his  former  Hfe  he 
often  had  cried  aloud,  his  brain  most  dreadfully  surging, 
his  panic  desire  to  get  out  of  it  all.    He  told  himself  that 
he  now  was  out  of  it  all.    He  had  been  frantic  to  be  free; 
he  now  was  free.     A  very  giddiness  of  freedom  pos- 
sessed him  and  caused  him,  at  the  dizziness  of  it,  to 
laugh   aloud.     A  very  intoxication  of  irresponsibiUty 
filled  him  and  caused  in  him  a  fierce  lust  to  exercise  it  in 
feats  of  maddest  folly.     He  only  wanted  to  laugh,  as 
before  he  very  often  had  wanted  to  cry  or  scream.    He 
only  wanted  to  perform  wild,  senseless  pranks,  as  before 
he  only  had  desired  to  be  shut  away  from  people  —  by 
himself,  alone,  in  the  dark.    All  this  increased  with  every 
day  of  the  early  days  in  Mr.  Puddlebox's  company. 
Now,  as  he  sat  beside  Mr.  Puddlebox  on  the  tail-board 
of  the  wagon,  and  swung  his  legs  and  often  laughed 
aloud,  he  sometimes  reflected  upon  where  the  wagon 
was  taking  them  and  what  would  happen,  and  at  the 
thought  that  he  did  not  care  whither  or  what,  laughed 
again;    and  more  than  once  looked  at  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
blowing   and   puffing   in    exhaustion   beside   him,    and 
scarcely  could  control  an  impulse  to  push  him  off  the 
tail-board  and  laugh  to  see  him  clutch  and  expostulate 
and  fall;   and  once  struck  his  fist  against  the  revolving 
wheel  beside  him  and  laughed  aloud  to  feel  the  pain  and 
to  see  his  bruised  and  dusty  knuckles. 

"  Loony,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  catching  the  gleam- 
ing eyes  that  were  turned  upon  him  in  mischievous 
thought  to  push  him  off,  "  Loony,  you're  getting  un- 
spooked  already." 


INTENTIONS  OF  A  WAGONER  91 

"  It's  very  jolly,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  and  laughed.  "  I 
like  this." 

"  You  shall  learn  to  like  everything,"  said  Mr.  Puddle- 
box,  "  and  so  to  be  jolly  always." 

"  How  do  you  Hve?  "  inquired  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  Why,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  by  liking  everything, 
for  that  is  the  only  way  to  live.  Sun,  snow;  rain,  storm; 
heat,  cold;  hunger,  fullness;  fatigue,  rest;  pain,  pleas- 
ure; I  take  all  as  they  come  and  welcome  each  by  turn 
or  all  together.  They  come  from  the  Lord,  boy,  and 
that  is  how  I  take  them,  love  them,  and  return  them  to 
the  Lord  again  in  form  of  praise.    Selah." 

"  Dash  it,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  "  you  might  be  a  Sal- 
vationist, you  know."  , 

"  Curse  me,"  returned  Mr.  Puddlebox  very  cheer- 
fully, "  I  am  nothing  of  the  sort.  Would  that  I  were. 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  am,  boy.  I  am  the  most  miserable 
sinner  that  any  man  could  be,  and  I  am  the  most  mis- 
erable in  this  —  that  I  know  where  mercy  comes  from, 
which  most  poor  sinners  do  not  and  therefore  am  less 
miserable  than  I.  I  have  outraged  my  parents,  and  I 
outrage  heaven  in  every  breath  I  draw,  particularly 
when,  as,  curse  me,  too  often  it  is,  my  breath  is  whisky- 
ladened:  which  thing  is  abominable  to  the  nose  of 
godliness  and  very  comfortable  to  my  own.  I  know 
where  mercy  comes,  loony,  on  the  one  hand  because 
I  was  trained  for  the  ministry,  and  on  the  other  because 
I  see  it  daily  with  my  eyes.  I  know  where  mercy  comes, 
yet  I  never  can  encompass  it,  for  my  flesh  is  ghastly 
weak  and  ghastly  vile  and,  curse  me,  I  have  worn  it 
thus  so  long  that  I  prefer  it  so.  But  if  I  cannot  encom- 
pass mercy,  boy,  I  can  return  thanks  for  it;  and  if  it 
comes  in  form  of  scourge  —  cold,  hunger,  pain,  they 


92  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

are  the  three  that  fright  me  most  —  why,  I  deserve  it 
the  more  surely  and  return  it  in  praise  the  more  lustily. 
That  is  how  I  live." 

Many  days  hence  it  was  to  befall  Mr.  Wriford  —  in 
very  bitter  lesson,  in  hour  of  deepest  anguish  —  to 
know  a  certain  beauty  in  this  odd  testament  of  faith. 

Just  now,  of  his  dizzy  mood  and  of  the  teller's  merry 
eye  as  he  told  it,  little  more  than  its  whimsicality 
touched  him;  and  when  it  was  done,  "  Well,  but  that 
doesn't  feed  you,"  he  said.  "  In  that  way  —  feeding 
and  clothing  and  the  rest  of  it  —  how  do  you  live  in 
that  way?  " 

"  Why,  much  in  the  same,"  returned  Mr.  Puddlebox. 
"  Taking  what  comes,  and  if  need  be,  which  it  is  my 
constant  prayer  it  need  not,  turning  my  hand  to  work, 
of  which  there  is  plenty.  There  is  bread  and  raiment 
in  every  house,  some  for  asking,  some  for  working,  and 
always  some  to  get  rid  of  me  when  I  begin  to  work. 
What  there  is  not  in  every  house,  boy,  is  whisky,  and  it 
is  for  that  my  brow  has  to  sweat  when,  as  now,  my 
bottle  is  empty.  But  there  are,"  continued  Mr.  Puddle- 
box,  beginning  to  wriggle  in  his  seat  and  draw  up  his 
legs  with  the  evident  intention  of  standing  upon  them, 
"  there  are,  happily,  or,  curse  me,  unhappily,  other 
ways  of  getting  whisky;  and  the  first  is  never  to  lose 
an  opportunity  of  looking  for  it." 

Mr.  Puddlebox's  feet  were  now  upon  the  tail-board 
and  he  was  clutching  at  the  sacks,  in  great  exertion  to 
stand  upright. 

"  What  now?  "  inquired  Mr.  Wriford,  beginning  to 
laugh  again. 

"  Why,  to  look  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  In 
every  new  and  likely  place  I  always  look  for  whisky. 


INTENTIONS   OF  A  WAGONER  93 

If  none,  I  sing  very  heartily  *  0  ye  disappointments  ' 
and  am  the  better  both  for  the  praise  and  for  the 
fact  there  is  none.  If  some,  I  am  both  grateful 
and,  curse  me,  happy.  The  top  of  these  sacks  is  a 
new  place,  my  loony,  and  a  very  likely.  Our  kind 
coachman,  as  I  observed,  wore  no  coat  and  had  no 
bundle,  nor  were  these  beside  him.  They  are  Ukely  on 
top." 

"  I'll  come  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  It's  a 
devil  of  a  climb." 

"  It's  a  devil  of  a  prize,"  responded  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
"  if  it's  there." 

It  proved  to  be  both  the  one  and  the  other.  The 
sacks,  stacked  in  ridges,  provided  steps  of  a  sort,  but 
each  was  of  prodigious  height,  of  very  brief  foothold, 
and  the  sacks  so  tightly  stuffed  as  to  afford  but  a  scra- 
ping, digging  hold  for  the  fingers.  When  to  these  diffi- 
culties was  added  the  swa>'ing  of  the  whole  as  the 
wagon  jolted  along,  there  was  caused  on  the  part  of  the 
climbers  much  panic  clutching  at  each  other,  at  the  ropes 
which  bound  the  sacks,  and  at  the  sacks  themselves, 
together  with  much  blowing  and  sounds  of  fear  from  Mr. 
Puddlebox,  vastly  incommoded  by  his  bulging  coat- 
tails,  and  much  hysterical  mirth  from  Mr.  Wriford, 
incommoded  no  little  by  laughter  at  the  absurdity  of 
the  escapade  and  at  imagination  of  the  grotesque 
spectacle  they  must  present  as  they  swarmed. 

He  was  first  to  reach  the  summit.  "  By  Jove,  there's 
a  coat  here,  anyway!  "  he  cried. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  bulged  up  and  plunged  forward  on 
his  face  with  a  last  convulsive  scramble.  "  And,  by  my 
sins,  a  bottle!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox,  drawing  the  coat 
aside.    "  Beer,  I  fear  me  —  a  filling  and  unsatisfactory 


94  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

drink."  He  drew  the  cork  and  applied  his  nose. 
"  Whisky!  "  and  applied  his  mouth. 

"  Good  Lord!  "  cried  Mr.  Wriford,  astonished  at  a 
thought  that  came  to  him  with  the  length  of  Mr. 
Puddlebox's  drink.  "  Man  alive!  Do  you  drink  it 
neat?  " 

"  Hup!  Curse  me,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  I  do.  It 
takes  less  room.  Hup!  This  is  the  most  infernal  tor- 
ment, this  hupping.  I  must,  but  I  never  can,  drink 
more,  hup!  slowly.  As  a  rule,"  continued  Mr.  Puddle- 
box,  balancing  on  his  knees  and  fumbling  in  his  coat- 
tail  pockets,  "  as  a  rule  I  never  rob  a  man  of  his  bottle. 
If  a  man  has  a  bottle,  he  has  an  encouragement  towards 
thrift  and  sobriety.  It  is  a  persuasion  to  put  his  whisky 
there  instead  of  at  one  draught  into  his  mouth.  For 
the  moment  I  must  suspend  the  by-law.  I  cannot 
decant  this  gentleman's  whisky  into  my  own  bottle, 
for  our  carriage  shakes  and  would  cause  loss.  And  I 
cannot  exchange  for  this  bottle  my  own,  for  to  mine  I 
am  deeply  attached.  Therefore  —  "  Mr.  Puddlebox 
fumbled  the  bottle  into  his  pocket,  appeared  to  find 
some  difficulty  in  accommodating  it,  produced  it  again 
and  took  another  drink  from  it  and,  as  if  this  had  indeed 
diminished  its  bulk,  this  time  slid  it  home,  where  Mr. 
Wriford  heard  it  clink  a  greeting  with  its  empty  fellow. 
"  Therefore,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  —  ''  hup!  " 

"  Well,  mind  they  don't  break,"  said  Mr.-  Wriford. 
"  Let's  have  a  look  where  we're  getting  to,"  and  he 
squirmed  himself  on  elbows  and  knees  towards  the  front 
of  the  sacks  and  stretched  out,  face  downwards. 

"  I  never  yet,"  said  Mr,  Puddlebox  proudly,  "  com- 
mitted the  crime  of  breaking  a  bottle."  From  his  knees 
he  took  an  observation  down  the  road  ahead  of  him, 


INTENTIONS   OF  A  WAGONER  95 

announced:  "  We  are  getting  towards  the  pretty  hamlet 
of  Ditchenhanger,"  and  coming  forward  lay  full  length 
by  Mr.  Wriford's  side. 

This  position  brought  their  heads,  overhanging  the 
sacks,  immediately  above  the  wagoner  seated  a  long 
arm's  length  below  them,  his  horses  walking,  the  reins 
slack  in  his  hands  and  himself,  to  all  appearances,  in 
something  of  a  doze.  A  very  large  man,  as  Mr.  Wriford 
had  previously  noticed,  with  prodigious  arms,  bare  to 
the  elbow;  and  at  his  unconsciousness  of  their  presence, 
hanging  immediately  above  him,  and  at  his  sullen  face 
and  the  rage  upon  it  if  he  knew,  Mr.  Wriford  was 
moved  to  silent  squirms  of  laughter,  and  turned  a  laugh- 
ing face  to  Mr.  Puddlebox's,  suspended  over  the  sacks 
beside  him. 

"  Hup!  "  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  with  shattering  vio- 
lence. 

The  wagoner  started  not  less  violently,  looked  about 
him  with  jerking,  savage  head,  while  Mr.  Wriford  held 
his  breath  and  dared  not  move,  uttered  an  oath  of 
extraordinarily  unsavoury  character,  grabbed  at  his 
whip,  and  lashed  with  all  the  force  of  his  arm  at  his 
horses. 

The  nature  of  their  response  exercised  a  very  obvious 
result  upon  the  v/agon.  It  suffered  a  jerk  that  caused 
from  Mr.  Wriford  a  frantic  clutch  at  the  sacks  and  from 
Mr.  Puddlebox  a  double  explosion  that  cost  him  (as  he 
afterwards  narrated)  very  considerable  pain. 

''  Huppup!  "  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  Blink!  Hup!  " 
and  with  this  his  pudding-bowl  hat  detached  itself  from 
his  head  and  dropped  lightly  into  the  wagoner's  lap. 
That  gentleman  immediately  produced  another  oath, 
compared  with  which  his  earlier  effort  was  as  a  sweet 


96  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

smelling  rose  at  dewy  morn,  drew  up  his  unfortunate 
team  even  more  violently  than  he  had  urged  them  for- 
ward, with  very  loud  bellows  bounded  to  the  road  and, 
whip  in  hand,  completed  a  very  rapid  circuit  of  his 
wagon,  bawling  the  while  a  catalogue  of  astoundingly 
blood-curdhng  intentions  which  he  proposed  to  wreak 
upon  somebody  before,  as  he  phrased  it,  he  had  his 
blinking  hair  cut. 

His  passengers,  considerably  alarmed  at  these  pro- 
ceedings, withdrew  to  the  exact  centre  of  the  sacks 
and  there  reflected,  each  in  the  other's  face,  his  own 
dismay. 

"  Now  you've  done  it,  you  silly  ass,"  said  Mr.  Wri- 
ford. 

"  It's  not  over  yet,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  I'm 
afraid  this  is  going  to  be  very  rough." 


CHAPTER  II 

PASSIONATE    ATTACHMENT  TO   LIVER   OF  A  WAGONER 

"  You're  up  there,  ain't  yer? "  demanded  the 
wagoner,  arrived  at  the  other  side  of  the  wagon  and 
bawling  from  the  road.  "  You're  up  there,  aren't  yer? 
I've  got  you,  my  beauty!  I'll  cut  your  liver  out  for  yer 
before  I  have  my  blinkin'  hair  cut!  I've  got  you,  my 
beauty!    You're  up  there,  aren't  yer?  " 

Mr.  Puddlebox  poked  his  head  very  timidly  over  the 
side,  looked  down  upon  their  questioner,  and  remarked 
in  a  small  thin  voice:  "Yes  — hup!  "  He  then  drew 
back  very  hastily,  for  at  sight  of  him  the  wagoner  with 
a  very  loud  bellow  rushed  forward  and  smote  upward 
with  his  whip  in  a  manner  fully  calculated,  to  the 
minds  of  his  passengers,  to  cut  up  a  sack  or  lay  open  a 
liver  with  equal  precision.  "  Come  down  off  out  of  it!  " 
bellowed  this  passionate  gentleman,  flogging  upward 
with  appalUng  whistle  and  thud  of  his  lash.  "  Come 
down  off  out  of  it.  I'll  cut  your  liver  out,  my  beauty! 
I'll  cut  your  coat  off  your  back,  before  I  have  my 
blinkin'  hair  cut." 

Perceiving  that  the  angry  lash  fell  safely  short  of  its 
aim,  Mr.  Puddlebox  again  protruded  his  head. 

"  Now  are  you  coming  down,"  demanded  the  flaming 
wagoner,  "  or  am  I  coming  up  for  you?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  explain  —  "  began  Mr.  Puddlebox. 

"  I'll  explain  you!  "  roared  the  wagoner.     "  I'll  ex- 

Q7 


98  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

plain  you,  my  beauty!  Are  you  coming  down  off  out 
of  it?  " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  if  I  do  come?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Puddlebox. 

The  carter,  in  a  voice  whose  violence  seemed  likely 
to  throttle  him,  announced  as  his  intention  that  he  pro- 
posed to  cut  out  Mr.  Puddlebox's  Hver  with  his  whip 
and  then,  having  extracted  it,  to  dance  upon  it. 

"  Well,  I  won't  come,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  In 
that  case,  I  think  I'll  stay  here,"  he  said,  and  said  it 
with  a  nervous  little  giggle  that  shot  out  of  the  wagoner 
an  inarticulate  bellow  of  fury  and  a  half-dozen  of  terrific 
blows  towards  Mr.  Puddlebox's  anxious  face. 

"  Come  down  off  out  of  it!  "  bellowed  the  carter. 
"  I'll  cut  your  liver  out  before  I  have  my  blinkin'  hair 
cut,  my  beauty." 

The  same  nervous  giggle  again  escaped  the  unfor- 
tunate beauty  whose  liver  was  thus  passionately  de- 
manded. "  But  your  hair  doesn't  want  cutting,"  said 
Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  really  —  hup!  " 

"  You  fool!  "  Mr.  Wriford  cried.  ''  You  utter  fool!  " 
and  in  dramatic  illustration  of  Mr.  Puddlebox's  folly, 
the  wagon  began  to  shake  with  the  violence  of  the 
wagoner's  ascent  of  it,  and  there  preceded  the  ascent, 
increasing  in  horror  as  it  approached,  an  eruption  of 
astoundingly  distressing  oaths  mingled  in  the  most 
blood-curdling  way  with  references  to  liver  and  other 
organs  which  were  to  be  subjected  at  one  and  the  same 
time  to  step-dances  and  to  a  ferocious  orgy  of  surgical 
and  cannibalistic  practices. 

Mr.  Wriford  was  frightened.  There  went  out  of  him 
the  reckless  glee  in  mad  adventure  that  had  possessed 
him  on  the  wagon  till  now.     There  returned  to  him, 


ATTACHMENT  TO  LIVER  99 

dreadfully  as  if  a  hand  within  him  were  tugging  at  his 
vitals,  twirling  in  his  brain,  drumming  in  his  heart,  the 
coward  fear  that  well  of  old  he  knew. 

"  Down!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  Down  behind, 
loony!   quick!  "  and  began  to  scramble  backwards. 

There  came  to  Mr.  Wriford  some  odd  experiences. 
He  looked  at  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  saw  in  the  Httle  round 
face  where  usually  was  merriment,  alarm,  white  and 
sickly.  Then  saw  Mr.  Puddlebox's  eyes  search  his  own, 
and  waver,  and  then  fill  with  some  purpose.  Then  was 
pulled  and  pushed  backward  by  Mr.  Puddlebox.  Then 
both  were  hanging,  half  over  the  sacks,  half  on  top. 
Then  over  the  front  of  the  wagon  before  them  appeared 
the  wagoner's  cap  and  a  vast  arm  clutching  the  whip. 
Then  Mr.  Puddlebox  scrambled  forward  a  yard,  plac- 
ing himself  between  Mr.  Wriford  and  the  approach- 
ing fury.  "  Down  you  go,  loony;  he's  not  seen  you. 
Hide  yourself,  boy."  Then  Mr.  Puddlebox's  elbow  and 
then  his  knee  at  Mr.  Wriford 's  chest,  and  Mr.  Wriford 
was  slithered  down  the  sacks  and  fallen  in  the  road. 

Now  from  above,  and  before  yet  Mr.  Wriford  could 
get  to  his  feet,-  very  quick  things.  Baleful  howl  from 
the  flaming  wagoner  standing  on  his  driver's  seat  and 
towering  there  in  omnipotent  command  of  the  wagon- 
top.  Appalling  whistle-ww/>  of  the  whip  in  his  mighty 
and  ferocious  hand.  Pitiful  yelps  from  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
head  and  shoulders  exposed,  baggy  stern,  surmounted 
by  the  bulging  pockets,  suspended  above  Mr.  Wriford 
in  the  road  and  wriggling  this  way  and  that  as  the  whip 
fell.  Baleful  howl  from  the  flaming  wagoner  and  the 
wh.ht\e-mup!  at  each  loudest  word  of  it:  "  Now,  my 
beauty,  I've  GOT  yer!  " 

Pitiful  yelp  from  Mr.  Puddlebox:    "Yowp!    Hup!" 


loo  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"Now  I'll  CUT  your  Hver  out  for  yer."  — "Yeep! 
Hup!" 

"Before  I  have  my  BLINKIN'  'air  cut." — 
"  Yowp!  " 

"  Now  I'll  CUT  your  liver  out,  my  beauty."  — ■ 
"Yowp!    Yeep!    Hup!    Hell!" 

Beneath  the  blows  and  the  convulsive  wrigglings  they 
caused,  Mr.  Puddlebox's  stern  slipped  lower  down  the 
sacks.  Mr.  Wriford  scrambled  to  his  feet  from  where 
he  was  fallen  to  the  road.  He  was  utterly  terrified.  He 
turned  to  run.  He  stopped,  and  a  cry  of  new  fear 
escaped  him.    Figure  of  Wriford  stood  there. 

Mr.  Wriford  put  a  hand  before  his  eyes  and  went  a 
few  steps  to  the  side  of  the  wagon  and  stopped  again, 
irresolute. 

There  came  from  above  again  that  bellow,  again 
whistle-wup!  of  the  whip,  again  from  Mr.  Puddlebox 
in  agonized  response:  "Yowp!    Hup!" 

Mr.  Wriford  cried  aloud:  "  Oh,  why  doesn't  he  drop 
down?  " 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Figure  of  Wriford  turned  upon 
him  with  flaming  eyes  and  grinding  teeth  and  for  the 
first  time  spoke  to  him:  "  Why,  to  give  you  time  to 
get  away  and  hide  —  to  save  you,  you  filthy  coward!  " 

Mr.  Wriford  cried:    "  Oh  —  oh!  " 

And  at  once  a  dramatic  change  of  scene.  In  one 
sudden  and  tremendous  bound  the  flaming  wagoner 
hurled  himself  from  the  seat  to  the  road,  rushed  bawling 
around  his  wagon  on  the  opposite  side  from  where  Mr. 
Wriford  trembled,  came  full  beneath  the  hanging  stem 
of  Mr.  Puddlebox,  and  discharged  upon  it  a  cut  of  his 
whip  that  made  pretty  caresses  of  his  former  efforts. 
"  Now  I've  got  you,  my  beauty!  " 


ATTACHMENT  TO  LIVER  lol 

With  a  loud  and  exceeding  bitter  cry,  the  beauty 
released  his  hold.  As  thunders  the  mountain  avalanche, 
so  thundered  he.  As  falls  the  stricken  oak  so,  ava- 
lanched,  the  flaming  wagoner  fell  beneath  him. 

There  was  a  very  loud  crash  of  breaking  bottles,  and 
immediately  upon  the  hot  summer  air  a  pungent  reek 
of  whisky.  There  were  enormous  convulsions  of  Mr. 
Puddlebox  and  the  wagoner  entwined  in  one  great 
writhing  double  monster  prone  in  the  roadway,  and  from 
them  a  tremendous  cloud  of  dust.  There  were  thuds, 
oaths,  yowps,  yeeps,  bellows,  and  with  them  the  pleasant 
music  of  broken  bottles  jangling.  The  double  monster 
came  to  its  four  knees  and  writhed  there;  very  labori- 
ously —  as  if  it  were  a  rheumatic  giant  —  writhed  to 
its  four  legs  and  there  stood  and  writhed  amain ;  divided 
suddenly,  and  there  was  an  appalling  wallop  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  Mr.  Puddlebox  went  reeling,  musically 
jangling,  and  the  flaming  wagoner,  carried  round  by 
the  wallop's  impetus,  came  staggering  sideways  a  pace 
towards  Mr.  Wriford. 

Mr.  Wriford  put  down  his  head  and  shut  his  eyes  and 
rushed  at  him.  Mr.  Wriford,  as  he  rushed,  saw  Figure 
of  Wriford  disappear  as  if  swallowed.  Mr.  Wriford 
caught  his  foot  in  the  wheel,  was  discharged  Hke  a  but- 
ting ram  at  the  backs  of  the  flaming  wagoner's  knees, 
clutched,  wrenched,  was  down  with  the  bawling  wagoner 
beating  at  his  head,  and  then,  clutching  and  struggling, 
was  overturned  beneath  him.  Mr.  Wriford  heard  a 
yell,  first  of  warning,  then  of  triumph,  from  Mr.  Puddle- 
box: "  Keep  out  of  it,  loony!  Well  done,  boy!  Well 
done!  Glumph  him,  boy!  Glumph  him!  "  There  was 
a  terrible  run  and  kick  from  Mr.  Puddlebox,  and  a 
terrible  jerk  and  cry  from  the  flaming  wagoner,  and  in 


I02  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

the  next  moment  Mr.  Wriford  was  on  his  feet  and  taking 
share,  his  eyes  mostly  shut,  in  a  whirlwind,  three-sided 
battle  that  spun  up  the  road  and  down  the  road  and 
across  the  road,  and  in  which  sometimes  Mr.  Wriford 
hit  Mr.  Puddlebox,  and  sometimes  Mr.  Puddlebox  hit 
Mr.  Wriford,  and  sometimes  both  hit  the  wagoner  and 
sometimes  by  him  were  hit  —  a  whirlwind,  three-sided 
battle,  in  which,  in  short,  by  common  intent  of  the  three, 
the  thing  to  do  was  simply  to  hit  and  to  roar.  Six  arms 
whirUng  enormous  thumps;  six  legs  lashing  tremendous 
kicks;  the  air  and  three  bodies  receiving  them;  one 
mouth  bawHng  curses  of  the  very  pit  of  obscenity; 
another  howHng:  "  Glumph  him,  boy!  Glumph  him!  " 
Mr.  Wriford's  mouth  laughing  with  fierce,  exultant, 
hysterical  glee. 

The  sudden  rush  that  had  rid  Mr.  Wriford  of  Figure 
of  Wriford  had  returned  him,  and  returned  him  with 
recklessness  a  hundredfold,  to  the  mood,  reckless  of 
what  happened  to  him,  that  had  first  embarked  him 
on  the  wagon.  And  more  than  that.  Out  of  the  clutch 
of  cowardice  and  lusting  into  the  lust  of  action !  WTien 
swinging  his  legs  over  the  tail-board  of  the  wagon,  he  had 
but  gleefully  thought  of  how  now  he  w^as  free,  of  caring 
nothing  what  happened  to  him,  of  gleefully  throwing 
himself  into  any  mad  adventure.  He  had  but  thought  of 
it;  now  he  was  in  it!  in  it!  in  it!  and  in  it!  became  the 
slogan  of  his  fighting  as  he  fought.  "  In  it!  "  and  a  blind 
whirling  wallop  at  the  flaming  wagoner's  flaming  face. 
"  In  it!  "  and  colliding  heavily  with  one  of  Mr.  Puddle- 
box's  glumphing  rushes,  and  laughing  aloud.  "  In  it!  " 
and  spun  staggering  with  a  thump  of  one  of  the  wagon- 
er's whirling  sledge-hammers,  and  staggering  but  to  come 
with  a  fierce  glee  "  In  it!    In  it!  "  once  again.    Out  of 


ATTACHMENT  TO  LIVER  103 

the  clutch  of  cowardice  that  had  him  a  moment  before 
—  cowardice  bested  for  the  first  time  in  all  these  years 
of  its  nightmare  sovereignty:  and  at  that  thought  "  In 
it!  in  it!  in  it!  "  with  fierce  and  fiercer  lust  and  fierce 
and  fiercer  and  fiercest  exultation.    "  In  it!  "    Ah! 

This  extraordinary  battle  —  extraordinary  for  a 
shrinking,  gentlemanly,  refined,  well-dressed,  comfort- 
ably housed,  afternoon-tea-drinking  Londoner  —  raged, 
if  it  had  any  order  at  all,  about  the  towering  person  of 
the  hver-cutting  wagoner,  and  now  went  bawling  to  its 
end. 

For  this  gentleman  would  no  sooner  get  the  liver  of 
one  antagonist  in  his  fiery  clutches  than  the  other  would 
come  at  him  like  a  runaway  horse  and  require  attention 
that  resulted  in  the  escape  of  the  first.  And  now  a  liver, 
heavily  embedded  in  the  bulky  waist  of  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
came  at  him  head  down  with  a  force  and  with  a  fortune 
of  aim  that  not  even  a  stouter  man  than  the  wagoner 
could  have  withstood. 

A  very  terrible  buffet  had  just  been  inflicted  upon  Mr. 
Puddlebox.  A  sledge-hammer  wallop  from  the  wagoner 
had  caught  him  in  the  throat  ("  Ooop!  ")  and  remained 
there,  squeezing  ("  Arrp!  ").  The  other  hand  had  then 
clawed  him  like  a  tiger's  bite  in  close  proximity  to  his 
coveted  liver  {"Arrp!  Ooop!'')]  and  the  two  hands 
had  finally  hurled  him  ten  feet  away  to  end  in  a  most 
shattering  fall  ("  UMP!  ").  This  manoeuvre  was  carried 
out  by  the  flaming  wagoner  from  the  side  of  the  ditch 
to  which  repeated  rushes  had  driven  him,  and  now  he 
turned  and  directed  a  stupendous  kick  at  Mr.  Wriford, 
who  came  fiercely  on  his  left.  Mr.  Wriford  twisted;  the 
immense  boot  but  scraped  him. 


I04  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

Then  Mr.  Puddlebox  —  the  flaming  wagoner  on  one 
leg,  vitally  exposed. 

Mr.  Puddlebox,  head  down,  eyes  shut,  arms  stretched 
behind  him,  h}Tnned  on  to  victory  by  the  music  of  the 
broken  bottles  in  his  coat-tails,  bounding  across  the 
road  at  the  highest  speed  of  which  he  was  capable  and 
into  the  liver-cuttmg  gentleman's  own  liver  and  wind 
with  stunning  and  irresistible  force  and  rich  clash  of 
jangling  glass. 

Prone  into  the  ditch  the  liver-cutting  gentleman  and 
there  lay  —  advertising  his  presence  only  by  those  dis- 
tressing groans  which  are  at  once  the  symptom  of  a 
winding  and  the  only  sound  of  which  a  winded  is  capable. 

Mr.  Puddlebox,  also  in  the  ditch,  separated  himself 
from  the  stricken  mass  and,  stepping  upon  it,  emerged 
upon  the  victorious  battle-field  rubbing  his  head. 

A  very  loud,  panting  "  Hurrah!  "  from  Mr.  Wriford; 
but  before  further  felicitations  could  be  exchanged, 
attention  was  demanded  by  a  fourth  party  to  the  scene, 
who  had  been  approaching  unobserved  for  some  time, 
and  who  now  arrived  and  announced  himself  with: 
"Now  then  — hur!" 


CHAPTER   III 

DISTURBED   EQUIPOISE   OF  A   COUNTERBALANCING 
MACHINE 

This  was  a  sergeant  of  police,  short,  red,  hot,  neckless, 
filled  with  a  seeming  excess  of  bile,  or  of  self-importance, 
which  he  must  needs  correct  or  affirm  —  according  as 
it  was  the  one  or  the  other  —  with  a  hur!  at  the  end  of 
each  sentence,  and  balanced  by  prodigious  development 
in  the  rear  against  the  remarkable  fullness  beneath  his 
tunic  in  the  front,  which  he  carried  rather  as  though  it 
were  a  drum  or  some  other  detachable  article  that  must 
be  conducted  with  care. 

Mr.  Wriford  was  a  little  tickled  at  this  gentleman's 
appearance  and,  of  the  reckless  mood  that  had  him  — 
panting,  flaming,  bruised,  exulting  —  was  not  at  all 
inclined  to  be  hectored  in  the  way  that  the  hur!  seemed 
to  suggest  was  the  sergeant's  custom.  Trained,  however, 
to  the  Londoner's  proper  respect  for  a  policeman,  he 
answered,  still  panting:  "  There's  been  a  bit  of  a  fight." 

*' Saw  that  —  hur!"  said  the  sergeant.  "Three  of 
you  when  I  come  along.    Where's  the  other  —  hur!  " 

"  In  the  ditch,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Can't  you  hear 
him?  " 

The  sergeant  carried  his  drum  carefully  to  the  sound 
of  the  winded  groans  and,  lowering  it  so  far  as  he  was 
able,  peered  over  its  circumference  at  the  prostrate 
wagoner.     In  this  position  his  posterior  development, 

105 


io6  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

called  upon  to  exercise  its  counterbalancing  effect  in  the 
highest  degree,  displayed  itself  to  immense  advantage, 
and  Mr.  Wriford  eyed  it  with  a  twitching  of  his  face 
that  spoke  of  a  sudden  freakish  thought. 

The  sergeant  readjusted  his  drum  and  turned  upon 
him:  "  Who's  done  this?   Hur!  " 

"  Been  a  fight,  I  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  and 
laughed  at  the  idea  that  had  been  in  his  mind  and  at  the 
look  it  would  have  caused  on  the  sergeant's  face  if  he 
had  executed  it. 

The  sergeant  drew  in  a  breath  that  raised  the  drum 
in  a  motion  that  spelt  rufflement.  "  Don't  want  you  to 
tell  me  nothing  but  what  you're  asked,"  he  said.  "  Man 
lying  here  hurt.  Case  of  assault  —  hur!  "  He  moved 
the  drum  slowly  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Puddlebox  and 
this  time  "  hured  "  before  he  spoke.  "  Hur!  Thought 
I  knew  you  as  I  come  along.  Seen  you  afore  —  in  the 
dock,  —  am't  I?  " 

"  I've  been  in  so  many,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  ami- 
cably, wiping  his  face  from  which  the  sweat  streamed, 
"  that  if  I've  omitted  yours,  you  must  put  it  down  to 
oversight,  not  unfriendhness." 

"  None  o'  that!  "  returned  the  sergeant.  "  No  sauce. 
I  know  yer.  Charged  with  assault,  both  of  yer,  an' 
anything  said  used  evidence  against  yer.  Hur!  Who's 
this  man  down  here?  " 

"  Look  and  see  if  you  know  him,"  Mr.  Wriford  sug- 
gested.    "  I  don't." 

The  drum  was  again  advanced  to  the  ditch,  and  the 
counterbalancing  operation  again  very  carefully  put 
into  process.  Mr.  Wriford's  eyes  danced  with  the  wild 
idea  that  possessed  him.  To  cap  this  tremendous  hulla- 
baloo in  which  he  had  been  in  it!  in  it!  in  it!    To  fly 


DISTURBED   EQUIPOISE  107 

the  wildest  flight  of  all!  To  overturn,  with  a  wallop- 
ing kick,  a  policeman! 

He  drew  near  to  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  pulled  his  sleeve 
to  attract  his  attention. 

"Why,  that's  George!"  said  the  sergeant,  midway 
in  operation  of  his  counterbalancing  machine.  "  That's 
old  George  Huggs  —  hur!  " 

"  Can't  be!  "  said  Mr.  Wriford  and  pulled  Mr.  Puddle- 
box's  sleeve,  and  pointed  first  at  the  tremendous  uni- 
formed stern  gingerly  lowering  the  tunic-ed  drum,  then 
at  his  own  foot,  then  down  the  road. 

"Can't  be!"  returned  the  sergeant.  "What  yer 
mean,  can't  be!  That's  Miller  Derrybill's  George  Huggs. 
George!  George,  you've  got  to  come  out  and  prosecute. 
George,  I  say  —  hur!  " 

Mr.  Puddlebox,  realizing  the  meaning  of  Mr.  Wri- 
ford's  pantomime,  puffed  out  his  cheeks  with  laughter 
bursting  to  be  free  and  nodded.  Mr.  Wriford  took  one 
quick  step  and  poised  his  foot  at  the  tremendous  target. 

"  George!  "  said  the  sergeant.  "  George  Huggs! 
Hur!  " 

"  Whoop!  "  said  Mr.  Wriford,  and  lashed. 

The  counterbalancing  machine,  not  specified  for  this 
manner  of  usage,  overturned  with  the  slow  and  awful 
movement  of  a  somersaulting  elephant.  One  agonized 
scream  from  its  owner,  one  dreadful  bellow  from  George 
Huggs  as  the  enormous  sergeant  plunged  head  foremost 
upon  him  —  Mr.  Wriford  and  Mr.  Puddlebox,  shouts 
of  laughter  handicapping  their  progress  but  impossible 
of  control,  at  full  speed  down  the  road. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FIRST  PERSON   SINGULAR 


Close  of  this  day  found  the  two  in  the  outlying  bam 
of  a  farm  to  which,  as  night  fell,  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  led 
the  way.  There  had  intervened  between  it  and  the 
glorious  battle-field  an  imperial  midday  banquet  at  an 
inn  provided  by  Mr.  Wriford,  who  found  sixteen  shil- 
lings in  his  pocket  and  had  expended  upon  the  meal 
four,  upon  sundries  for  further  repasts  one,  and  upon 
a  bottle  of  whisky  to  replace  the  music  in  Mr.  Puddle- 
box's  coat-tail  three  and  six.  Thence  a  long  amble  to 
put  much  countryside  between  themselves  and  the 
mighty  gentlemen  left  in  the  ditch,  and  so  luxuriously 
to  bed  upon  delicious  hay,  three  parts  of  the  whisky  in 
the  bottle,  the  other  quarter  comfortably  packed  into 
Mr.  Puddlebox. 

Through  the  banquet  and  through  the  day  there  had 
been  bursts  of  laughter,  started  by  one  and  immediately 
chorused  by  the  other,  at  recollections  of  the  stupendous 
struggle  and  the  stupendous  kick;  also,  prompted  by 
Mr.  Wriford,  reiterated  conversation  upon  a  particular 
aspect  of  the  affair. 

"  I  did  my  share?  "  Mr.  Wriford  would  eagerly  in- 
quire. 

"  Loony,  you  did  two  men's  share,"  Mr.  Puddlebox 

1 08 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  109 

would  reply.  "  And  your  kick  of  the  policeman  was 
another  two  men's  —  four  men's  share,  boy.  I  didn't 
want  you  in  it,  loony.  You're  not  fit  for  such,  I  thought. 
But  you  glumphed  'em,  boy!  You  glumphed  'em  like 
six  men!  Loony,  you're  unspooking  —  you're  unspook- 
ing  double  quick!  " 

Mr.  Wriford  thrilled  at  that  and  laughed  aloud  and 
swung  his  arms  in  glee,  and  through  the  advancing  night, 
lying  warmly  in  the  hay  by  Mr.  Puddlebox's  side,  con- 
tinued to  feast  upon  it  and  to  chuckle  over  it;  and 
while  he  feasted  and  chuckled  very  often  said  to  him- 
self: "  And  that's  the  way  to  get  rid  of  myself  following 
me.  When  I  was  frightened  by  the  wagon,  he  came. 
When  I  was  walloping  and  smashing,  he  went  and 
hasn't  come  back.    Very  well.    Now  I  know." 

II 

Mr.  Wriford  enjoyed  some  hours  of  dreamless  sleep. 
He  awoke,  and  on  the  hay  and  in  the  darkness  lay  awake 
and  thought. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  very  funny  state  of  affairs,"  Mr. 
Wriford  thought.  "  Except  that  I'm  in  a  barn  and  shall 
get  locked  up  for  a  tramp  if  I'm  caught,  or  at  least  into 
a  devil  of  a  row  with  the  farmer  if  he  catches  me,  I'm 
dashed  if  I  know  where  I  am.  I've  stolen  a  ride  on  a 
wagon,  and  I've  had  a  most  extraordinary  fight  in  the 
road  with  the  chap  who  was  driving  it.  My  eyes  were 
shut  half  the  time.  I  wonder  I  wasn't  killed.  I  must 
have  got  some  fearful  smashes.  I  suppose  I  didn't  feel 
them  —  you  don't  when  your  blood's  up.  I  belted  him 
a  few  stiff  'uns,  though;  by  gad,  I  did!  I  don't  know 
how  I  had  the  pluck.    I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with 


no  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

me  —  I  mean  to  say,  me !  fighting  a  chap  Hke  that. 
And  then  I  kicked  a  policeman.  Good  Lord,  you 
know  —  that's  about  the  most  appalling  thing  a  man 
can  do!  Kicked  him  bang  over  —  heels  over  head!  By 
gad,  he  did  go  a  buster,  though!  "  And  at  recollection 
of  the  buster  that  the  police  sergeant  went,  Mr.  Wriford 
began  to  laugh  and  laughed  quietly  for  a  good  while. 

Then  he  began  to  think  again.  "  I  chucked  myself 
into  the  river,"  Mr.  Wriford  thought.  "  I'd  forgotten 
that.  I've  not  thought  about  it  since  I  did  it.  Good 
Lord,  that  was  a  thing  to  do!  I  didn't  mean  to.  One 
moment  I  was  walking  along  the  Embankment,  and  the 
next  I  was  falling  in.  I  wonder  what  I  did  in  between  — 
how  I  got  up,  how  I  got  in.  I  wanted  to  die.  Yes,  I 
tried  to  drown  and  die.  I  suppose  I'm  not  dead?  No, 
I  can't  possibly  be  dead.  Everything's  funny  enough  to 
be  another  world,  but  I  take  my  oath  I'm  not  dead. 
This  chap  Puddlebox  —  which  can't  possibly  be  his  real 
name  —  thinks  I'm  mad.  But  I'm  absolutely  not  mad. 
I  may  be  dead  —  I  know  I'm  not,  though;  at  least  I'm 
pretty  sure  I'm  not  —  but  I'm  dashed  if  I'm  mad.  I've 
been  too  near  madness  —  God  knows  —  not  to  know  it 
when  I  see  it.  Those  sort  of  rushes-up  in  my  head  —  I 
might  have  gone  mad  any  time  with  one  of  those.  Well, 
they're  gone.  I'll  never  have  another;  I  feel  absolutely 
sure  of  that.  My  head  feels  empty  —  feels  as  though 
it  was  a  different  part  of  me,  like  I've  known  my  foot 
feel  when  it's  gone  to  sleep  and  I  can  touch  it  without 
feeling  it.  Before,  my  head  used  to  feel  full,  cram  full. 
That's  the  only  difference  and  that's  not  mad:  it's  just 
the  reverse,  if  anything.  What  about  seeing  myself? 
Who  am  I  then?  I  mean  to  say,  am  I  the  one  I  can  see 
or  the  one  I  think  I  am?    Well,  the  thing  is,  is  there  any 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  iii 

one  there  when  I  see  him  or  is  it  only  imagination,  only 
a  delusion?  If  it's  a  delusion,  then  it's  madness  and  I'm 
mad.  Well,  the  very  fact  that  I  know  that,  proves  it 
isn't  a  delusion  and  proves  I'm  absolutely  sane;  the 
very  fact  that  I  can  lie  here  and  argue  about  it  and  that 
I  can't  see  it  now  because  it  isn't  here,  and  can  see  it 
sometimes  because  it  is  there  —  that  very  fact  proves 
I'm  not  mad.  I  think  I  know  what  it  is.  It's  the  same 
sort  of  thing  as  I  remember  once  or  twice  years  ago, 
when  I  first  came  to  London  and  had  a  night  out  with 
some  men  and  got  a  bit  tipsy.  I  remember  then  sort 
of  seeing  myself  —  sort  of  trying  to  pull  myself  together 
and  reahse  who  I  really  was;  and  while  I  was  trying,  I 
could  see  myself  playing  the  fool  and  staggering  about 
and  making  an  ass  of  myself.  It  was  the  drink  that 
did  that  —  that  kind  of  separated  me  into  two.  Now 
I've  done  the  same  thing  by  trying  to  drown  myself 
and  nearly  succeeding  and  by  coming  into  this  extraor- 
dinary state  of  affairs  after  living  in  a  groove  so  long. 
Part  of  me  is  still  in  that  old  life  and  gets  the  upper  hand 
of  me  sometimes,  just  as  the  drink  used  to.  I've  only 
got  to  realise  that  I've  done  with  all  that,  and  I've  only 
got  to  smash  about  and  not  care  what  happens  to  me, 
and  I'm  all  right. 

"  And  I  have  done  with  it,"  cried  Mr.  Wriford  aloud 
and  fiercely,  and  sitting  up  and  continuing  to  speak  very 
quickly.  "  I  have  done  with  it!  All  these  years  I've 
been  shut  up  and  never  enjoyed  myself  like  other  men. 
I've  given  up  my  life  to  others  and  got  mixed  up  in  their 
troubles  and  never  been  able  to  live  for  myself.  Now 
I'm  going  to  begin  life  all  over  again.  I'm  not  going  to 
care  for  anybody.  I'm  just  going  to  let  myself  —  go! 
I'm  not  going  to  care  what  happens.    I'm  not  going  to 


112  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

think  of  other  people's  feelings.  I'm  not  going  to  be 
polite  or  care  a  damn  what  anybody  thinks.  If  I  get 
hurt,  I'm  just  going  to  be  hurt  and  not  care.  If  I  want 
to  do  what  would  have  seemed  wrong  in  the  old  days, 
I'm  just  going  to  do  it  and  not  care.  I've  cared  too 
much!  that's  what's  been  wrong  with  me.  Now  I'm 
not  going  to  care  for  anything  or  anybody.  This  chap 
Puddlebox  said  that  what  was  wrong  with  me  was  that 
I  thought  too  much  about  myself.  I  remember  Brida 
telling  me  the  same  thing  once.  That's  just  exactly 
what  it's  not.  All  my  life  I've  thought  too  much  about 
other  people.  That's  been  the  trouble.  Done!  Whoop, 
my  boy,  it's  done!  There's  not  going  to  be  anybody  in 
the  world  for  myself  except  me  —  yes,  and  not  even  me. 
I'm  going  to  be  outside  it  all  and  just  look  on  —  and  this 
me  lying  here  can  do  what  it  likes,  anything  it  likes. 
Hurt  itself,  starve  itself,  chuck  itself  down  —  that's 
one  of  the  things  I  want  to  do:  to  get  up  somewhere 
and  chuck  myself  down  smash!  and  see  what  happens 
and  laugh  at  it,  whatever  it  is.  I'm  simply  not  going 
to  care.  I  belong  to  myself  —  or  rather  myself  belongs 
to  me,  and  I'm  going  to  do  what  I  like  with  it  —  just 
exactly  what  I  like.    Puddlebox!  " 

Mr.  Wriford  turned  to  the  recumbent  form  beside 
him  to  nudge  it  into  wakefulness,  but  found  it  already 
awake.  The  gleam  of  Mr.  Puddlebox's  open  eyes  was 
to  be  seen  in  the  darkness,  and  Mr.  Puddlebox  said: 
"  Loony,  how  many  of  you  are  here  this  morning?  " 

''There's  only  me,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  ''I'm  not 
going  to  care  —  " 

"  You're  spooked  again,  loony,"  Mr.  Puddlebox  in- 
terrupted him.     "  I've  been  listening  to  you  talking." 

"  Well,  you  can  listen  to  this,"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 


FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR  113 

"I'm  not  going  to  care  a  damn  what  happens  to  me  or 
care  a  hang  for  anybody  —  you  or  anybody." 

"  Very  weU,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.    "  That's  settled." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  "  and  I  tell  you  what 
I'm  going  to  do  jS.rst." 

Sufficient  of  morning  was  by  now  stealing  through 
cracks  and  crevices  of  the  bam  to  radiate  its  gloom. 
Two  great  doors  admitted  to  the  interior.  Between 
them  ran  a  gangway  of  bricked  floor  with  hay  stacked 
upwards  to  the  roof  on  either  hand.  Mr.  Wriford  could 
almost  touch  the  roof  where  now  he  stood  up,  his  feet 
sinking  in  the  hay,  and  could  see  the  top  of  the  ladder 
by  which  overnight  they  had  climbed  to  their  bed. 
"  What  I'm  going  to  do  first,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  point- 
ing to  the  gangway  beneath  them,  "  is  to  jump  down 
there  and  see  what  happens." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  you  are  going  to  do  last," 
returned  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  and  that  also  is  jump  down 
there,  because  you'll  break  your  neck  and  that'll  be 
the  end  of  you,  boy." 

"  I'm  going  to  see,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Smash! 
That's  just  what  I  want  to  see." 

"  Half  a  minute,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  caught 
Mr.  Wriford's  coat.  "  Just  a  moment,  my  loony,  for 
there's  some  one  else  wants  to  see  also.  There's  some 
one  coming  in." 


CHAPTER  V 

INTENTIONS,   IN  HIS   NIGHTSHIRT,    OF   A   PARMER 

It  was  symptomatic  of  Mr.  Wriford's  state  in  these 
days  that  any  interruption  at  once  diverted  him  from 
his  immediate  purpose  and  turned  him  eagerly  to  what- 
ever new  excitement  offered.  So  now,  and  here  was  an 
excitement  that  promised  richly.  Perched  up  there  in 
the  darkness  and  with  the  guilty  knowledge  of  being  a 
trespasser,  it  was  a  very  tingling  thing  to  hear  the 
sounds  to  which  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  called  attention 
and,  peering  towards  the  door  from  which  they  came,  to 
speculate  into  what  alarms  they  should  develop.  This 
was  speedily  discovered.  The  sounds  proceeded  from 
the  door  opposite  to  that  by  which  entry  had  been  made 
overnight,  and  from  fumbling  passed  into  a  jingling 
of  keys,  a  turning  of  the  lock,  and  so  gave  admittance 
to  a  gleam  of  yellow  light  that  immediately  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  man  bearing  a  lantern  swinging  from  his  left 
hand  and  in  his  right  a  bunch  of  keys. 

This  was  a  curious  gentleman  who  now  performed 
curious  actions.  First  he  peered  about  him,  holding 
the  lantern  aloft,  and  this  disclosed  him  to  be  short 
and  very  ugly,  having  beneath  a  black  growth  on  his 
upper  lip  yellow  teeth  that  protruded  and  came  down 
upon  his  lower.  This  gentleman  was  hatless  and  in  a 
shirt  without  collar  lumped  so  bulgingly  into  the  top 
of  his  trousers  as  to  present  the  idea  that  it  was  very 

114 


INTENTIONS   OF  A  FARMER  115 

long.  Indeed,  as  he  turned  about,  the  lantern  at  arm's 
length  above  his  head,  it  became  clear  to  those  who 
watched  that  this  was  his  nightshirt  that  he  wore.  Next 
he  set  down  the  lantern,  locked  the  door  by  which  he 
had  entered,  placed  across  it  an  iron  bar  which  fell  into 
a  bracket  on  either  side,  took  up  his  light  again,  and 
proceeded  along  the  gangway. 

All  this  he  did  very  stealthily  —  turning  the  key  so 
that  the  lock  could  scarcely  be  heard  as  it  responded, 
fitting  his  iron  bar,  first  with  great  attention  on  the  one 
side  and  then  on  the  other,  and  then  walking  forward 
on  his  toes  with  manifest  straining  after  secrecy.  A  rat 
scurried  in  the  straw  behind  him,  and  he  twisted  round 
towards  it  as  though  terribly  startled,  with  a  quick  hiss 
of  his  breath  and  with  his  hand  that  held  the  keys 
clapped  swiftly  to  his  heart. 

Now  he  came  beneath  the  stack  upon  which  our  two 
trespassers  watched  and  wondered,  and  there  remained 
for  a  space  lost  from  view.  There  was  to  be  heard  a 
cHnking  as  though  he  operated  with  his  lantern,  and 
with  it  a  shuffiing  as  though  he  disturbed  the  straw. 
Next  he  suddenly  went  very  swiftly  to  the  further  door, 
passed  through  it  in  haste,  and  could  be  heard  locking 
it  from  the  outside,  then  wrenching  at  the  key  as  though 
in  a  great  hurry  to  be  gone,  then  gone. 

"  That's  funny,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Was  he  look- 
ing for  something?  " 

''  He  was  precious  secret  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Puddle- 
box. 

"  Damn  it,"  cried  Mr.  Wriford,  "  he's  left  his  lamp 
behind.    You  can  see  the  gleam." 

Mr.  Puddlebox,  like  curious  hound  that  investigates 
the  breeze,  sat  with  chin  up  and  with  twitching  nose; 


ii6  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

then  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Curse  it,"  cried  Mr.  Puddle- 
box,  "  he's  set  the  place  afire!  Skip,  loony,  skip,  or 
we're  trapped! "  and  Mr.  Puddlebox  hurled  himself 
towards  the  ladder,  reversed  himself  upon  it,  missed  a 
rung  in  his  haste,  and  with  a  very  loud  cry  disappeared 
with  great  swiftness,  and  with  a  very  loud  bump  crashed 
with  great  force  to  the  ground. 

Mr.  Wriford  followed.  Mr.  Wriford,  with  no  very 
clear  comprehension  of  what  was  toward,  but  very 
eager,  also  slipped,  also  slithered,  and  also  crashed. 

"  Hell!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  BHnk!  Get  of  me, 
loony!  " 

Mr.  Wriford  was  raised  and  rolled  as  by  convulsion 
of  a  mountain  beneath  him.  As  he  rolled,  he  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  lantern  embedded  in  a  nest  of  straw,  its 
smoky  flame  naked  of  chimney,  and  from  the  flame 
towards  the  straw  a  strip  of  cloth  with  a  little  red  smoul- 
der midway  upon  it.  As  he  sat  up,  the  smoulder  flared 
to  a  little  puff  of  flame,  ran  swiftly  down  the  cloth, 
flared  again  in  the  straw,  then  was  eclipsed  beneath  the 
mighty  Puddlebox,  bounded  forward  from  hands  and 
knees  upon  it. 

"  The  lamp,  boy!  "  bellowed  Mr.  Puddlebox. 

Mr.  Wriford  dashed  at  the  lamp,  bestowed  upon  it 
all  the  breath  he  could  summon,  and  flattened  himself 
beside  Mr.  Puddlebox  upon  a  spread  of  flame  that,  as  he 
blew,  ran  from  lantern  to  straw. 

"Good  boy!"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "That  was 
quick,"  and  himself  at  once  did  something  quicker. 
Very  cautiously  first  he  raised  his  body  upon  his  hands 
and  knees,  squinted  beneath  it,  then  dropped  it  again 
with  immense  swiftness  and  wriggled  it  violently  into 
the  straw.     "  I'm  still  burning  down  here,"  cried  Mr. 


INTENTIONS  OF  A  FARMER  117 

Puddlebox,  and  turned  a  face  of  much  woe  and  concern 
towards  Mr.  Wriford,  and  inquired:  "  How's  yours, 
loony?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  went  through  the  first,  or  cautious,  por- 
tion of  Mr.  Puddlebox's  performance  and  announced: 
"  Mine's  out.    Get  up  and  let's  have  a  look." 

"  Why,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  irritably,  "  how  to  the 
devil  can  I  get  up?  If  I  get  up  it  will  burst  out,  and  if 
I  Ue  here  I  shall  be  slowly  roasted  alive.  This  is  the 
most  devil  of  a  predicament  that  ever  a  man  was  in, 
and  I  will  challenge  any  man  to  be  in  a  worse.  Unch  — 
my  stomach  is  already  like  a  pot  on  the  fire.  Ooch! 
Blink." 

"  Well,  the  fire's  simply  gaining  while  you  lie  there," 
cried  Mr.  Wriford.  "  I  can  smell  it.  It's  simply  gain- 
ing, you  ass." 

"  Ass!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  Ass!  I  tell  you  it 
is  you  will  look  an  ass  and  a  roast  ass  if  I  move.  I  can 
get  no  weight  on  it  to  crush  it  like  this.  JJjich!  What 
I  am  going  to  do  is  to  turn  over  and  press  it  down, 
moreover  I  can  bear  roasting  better  on  that  other  side 
of  me.  Now  be  ready  to  give  me  a  hand  if  the  flames 
burst,  and  be  ready  to  run,  loony  —  up  the  ladder  and 
try  the  roof." 

Mr.  Puddlebox  then  raised  his  chest  upon  his  arms, 
made  a  face  of  great  agony  as  the  released  pressure 
caused  his  stomach  to  feel  the  heat  more  fiercely,  then 
with  a  stupendous  convulsion  hurled  himself  about  and 
gave  first  a  very  loud  cry  as  the  new  quarter  of  his  per- 
son took  the  fire  and  then  many  wriggles  and  a  succes- 
sion of  groans  as  with  great  courage  he  pressed  his  seat 
down  upon  the  smouldering  embers.  Lower  he  wriggled, 
still  groaning.    "  Ah,"  groaned  Mr.  Puddlebox.    "  Arp. 


ii8  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Ooop.  Erp.  Blink.  Eep.  Erps.  Ooop.  Hell! "  He 
then  felt  about  him  with  his  hands,  and  with  the  fingers 
of  one  finding  what  he  sought  and  finding  it  uncom- 
monly hot,  brought  his  fingers  to  his  mouth  with  a 
bitter  yelp;  fumbled  again  most  cautiously,  wriggled 
yet  more  determinedly,  groaned  anew,  yet  at  longer 
intervals,  and  presently,  a  beaming  smile  overspreading 
his  countenance,  raised  an  arm  aloft  and  announced 
triumphantly:   "  Out!  " 

"  Out!  "  repeated  Mr.  Puddlebox,  rising  and  beating 
smoulder  from  his  waistcoat  with  one  hand  and  from 
his  trousers  with  the  other. 

"  You  were  deviUsh  plucky,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  I 
can't  help  laughing  now  it's  over,  you  know.  But  it 
was  a  narrow  squeak.  You  were  quick  getting  down, 
and  you  saved  both  our  Uves  by  hanging  on  like 
that." 

"  Why,  you  were  quick,  too,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddle- 
box.  "  You  were  quick  after  me  as  a  flash  —  and 
plucky.  I'd  not  have  done  it  alone.  You're  coming  on, 
boy;  you're  coming  on.  You're  unspooking  every 
minute." 

"  I  did  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  But  he  was 
secretly  glad  at  the  praise,  and  this,  joined  to  his  earher 
determination  to  care  nothing  for  anybody  nor  for  what 
happened  to  him,  spurred  him  to  give  eager  aid  to  what 
Mr.  Puddlebox  now  proposed. 

"I  am  parboiled  in  front,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
finishing  his  beating  of  himself,  "  and  I  am  underdone 
behind;  but  the  fire  is  out,  and  now  it  is  for  us  to  get 
out.  Loony,  that  was  a  damned,  cold-blooded  villain 
that  came  here  to  burn  us,  and  a  damned  ugly  villain 
as  ever  I  saw,  and  I  will  challenge  any  man  to  show  me 


INTENTIONS  OF  A  FARMER  119 

an  uglier.  There  is  a  lesson  to  be  taught  him,  my  loony, 
and  there  is  compensation  to  be  paid  by  him;  and  this 
he  shall  be  taught  and  shall  pay  before  I  am  an  hour 
older  in  sin." 

With  this  Mr.  Puddlebox  marched  very  determinedly 
up  the  ladder  which  he  had  descended  very  abruptly, 
and  preceded  Mr.  Wriford  across  the  top  of  the  hay 
to  the  point  where  this  ^/as  nearest  met  by  the  sloping 
roof.  "  It's  all  very  fine,"  doubted  Mr.  Wriford,  ad- 
dressing the  determined  back  as  they  made  their  way, 
"  it's  all  very  fine,  Puddlebox,  but  mind  you  we  look 
like  getting  ourselves  in  a  devil  of  a  fix  if  we  go  messing 
round  this  chap,  whoever  he  is.  He's  probably  the 
farmer.  If  he  is  it  looks  as  if  he  wanted  to  fire  his  barn 
to  get  the  insurance;  and  it'll  be  an  easy  thing  for  him, 
and  a  jolly  good  thing,  to  shove  the  blame  on  us.  That's 
what  I  think." 

"  Loony,"  returned  Mr.  Puddlebox,  arrived  under 
the  roof  and  facing  him,  "  you  think  too  much,  and 
that's  just  what's  the  matter  with  you,  as  I've  told  you 
before.  To  begin  with,  his  barn  has  not  been  burnt, 
and  that's  just  where  we've  got  him.  We  are  heroes, 
my  loony,  and  I  am  a  burnt  hero,  and  some  one's  got  to 
pay  for  it." 

Mr.  Wriford's  reply  to  this  was  first  a  look  of  sharp 
despair  upon  his  face  and  then  to  raise  his  fists  and 
drum  them  fiercely  upon  his  head. 

"  Why,  boy!  boy!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  caught 
Mr.  Wriford's  hands  and  held  them.  "  Why,  what  to 
the  devil  is  that  for?  " 

"  That's  for  what  I  was  doing!  "  cried  Mr.  Wriford. 
"  That's  because  I  stopped  to  think.  I'm  never  going 
to  think  any  more,  and  I'm  never  going  to  stop  any 


I20  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

more.     And  if  I  catch  myself  stopping  or  thinking  I 
shall  kill  myself  if  need  be!  " 

"  Well,  why  to  the  devil,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  very 
quickly,  "  do  you  stop  to  beat  yourself  instead  of  doing 
what  I  tell  you?  Where  there's  a  little  hole,  my  loony, 
there's  easy  work  to  make  a  big  one.  Here's  plenty  of 
little  holes  in  these  old  tiles  of  this  roof.  Up  on  my 
shoulders,  loony,  and  get  to  work  on  them." 


CHAPTER   VI 

RISE   AND   FALL   OF   INTEREST   IN  A   FARMER 

Symptomatic  again  of  Mr.  Wriford's  condition  that 
his  storm  was  gone  as  quickly  as  it  came.  Now  filled 
him  only  the  adventure  of  breaking  out ;  and  he  was  no 
sooner,  with  much  laughter,  straddled  upon  Mr.  Puddle- 
box's  shoulders  and  pulling  at  the  tiles,  than  with 
smallest  effort  the  Uttle  holes  in  the  weather-worn 
roofing  became  the  large  one  that  Mr.  Puddlebox  had 
promised. 

"  Whoa! "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox,  plunging  in  the 
yielding  hay  beneath  Mr.  Wriford's  weight. 

"  Whoa!  "  echoed  Mr.  Wriford,  and  to  check  the 
staggering  grabbed  at  the  crumbling  tiles. 

"  Blink! "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  collapsed. 
"  Curse  me,  is  the  roof  come  in  on  us?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  extricated  himself  and  stood  away, 
rubbing  his  head  that  had  received  tiles  like  discharge 
of  thunderbolts.  "  A  pretty  good  chunk  of  it  has," 
said  Mr.  Wriford.     "  There's  your  hole  right  enough." 

This  was  indeed  a  great  rent  capable  of  accommo- 
dating their  purpose  and  more;  and  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
whose  head  also  needed  rubbing,  now  arose  and  exam- 
ined it  with  his  customary  cheerfulness.  "  That's  a 
fine  hole,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  and  a  clever  one 
also,  for  here  to  this  side  of  it  runs  a  beam  which,  if  it 
will  support  us,  will  have  us  out,  and  if  it  will  not,  will 


122  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

fetch  the  whole  roof  down  and  have  us  out  that  way. 
Jump  for  the  beam,  boy,  while  I  Uft  you." 

Mr.  Puddlebox's  hands  on  either  side  of  Mr.  Wriford's 
hips,  jumping  him,  and  then  at  his  legs,  shoving  him, 
enabled  Mr.  Wriford  with  small  exertion  soon  to  be 
straddled  along  the  roof,  and  then  with  very  enormous 
exertion  to  engage  in  the  prodigious  task  of  dragging 
Mr.  Puddlebox  after  him.  When  this  was  accom- 
plished so  far  as  that  Mr.  Puddlebox's  arms,  head  and 
chest  were  upon  the  beam  and  the  remainder  of  his 
body  suspended  from  it,  "  It's  devihsh  steep  up  here," 
grunted  Mr.  Wriford,  flat  on  his  face,  hauHng  amain  on 
the  slack  of  Mr.  Puddlebox's  trousers,  and  not  at  all  at 
his  strongest  by  reason  of  much  laughter  at  Mr.  Puddle- 
box's groans  and  strainings;  "  it's  devilish  steep  and 
nothing  to  hold  on  to.  Look  out  how  you  come  or 
you'll  have  us  both  over  and  break  our  necks." 

"  Well,  when  to  the  devil  shall  I  come?  "  groaned 
Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  This  is  the  very  de\il  of  a  pain  to 
have  my  stomach  in,  and  I  challenge  any  man  to  have 
his  stomach  in  a  worse.  I  must  drop  down  again  or  I 
am  like  to  be  cut  in  halves." 

"I'll  never  get  you  up  again  if  you  do,"  Mr.  Wriford 
told  him.  "  I've  got  your  trousers  tight  to  heave  you 
if  you'll  swing.  Swing  your  legs  sideways,  and  when  I 
say  '  Three  '  swing  them  up  on  the  beam  as  high  as  you 
can." 

The  counting  of  One  and  Two  set  ]\Ir.  Puddlebox's 
legs,  aided  by  Mr.  Wriford's  hands  on  his  stern,  swing- 
ing like  a  vast  pendulum.  "  Hard  as  you  can  as  you 
come  back,"  called  Mr.  Wriford,  "  and  hang  on  like 
death  when  you're  up  —  three!  " 

With  a  most  tremendous  swing  the  boots  of  the  pen- 


RISE  AND  FALL  OF  mTEREST         123 

dulum  reached  the  roof  and  clawed  a  foothold.  Between 
heels  and  one  shoulder  its  powerful  stern  depended 
ponderously  above  the  hay.  "  Heave  yourself!  "  shouted 
Mr.  Wriford,  hauling  on  the  trousers.  "  Roll  yourself! 
Heave  yourself!  "  Mr.  Puddlebox  heaved  enormously, 
rolled  tremendously,  and,  like  the  counterbalancing 
machine  of  the  police  sergeant,  up  came  his  stern,  and 
prodigiously  over. 

"  Look  out!  "  cried  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Look  out!  Let 
go,  you  ass!  " 

"  BHnk!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox,  flat  and  rolling  on 
the  steep  pitch  of  the  roof.  "  Bhnk!  We're  killed!  " 
clutched  anew  at  Mr.  Wriford,  tore  him  from  his  moor- 
ings, and,  knotted  with  him  in  panic-stricken  embrace, 
whirled  away  to  take  the  plunge  and  then  the  drop. 

The  strawyard  in  which  the  barn  stood  was  fortu- 
nately well  bedded  in  straw  about  the  walls  of  the  build- 
ing. When,  with  tremendous  thump,  with  the  familiar 
sound  of  smashing  glass  and  familiar  scent  of  whisky 
upon  the  morning  air,  the  two  had  come  to  rest  and  had 
discovered  themselves  unbroken  —  "  Why  the  dickens 
didn't  you  let  go  of  me?  "  Mr.  Wriford  demanded.  "  I 
could  have  hung  on  with  one  hand  and  held  you." 

Mr.  Puddlebox  sat  up  with  his  jolly  smile  and  glancing 
at  the  height  of  their  descent  gave  with  much  fervour: 

"  O  ye  falls  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord;  praise 
Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever!  " 

Mr.  Wriford  jumped  up  and  waved  his  arms  and 
laughed  aloud  and  then  cried:  "That  was  all  right. 
Now  I'm  not  caring!    Now  I'm  living!  " 

"  Why,  look  you,  my  loony,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
beaming  upon  him  with  immense  delight,  "  look  you, 
that  was  very  much  all  right;  and  that  is  why  I  return 


124  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

praise  for  it.  We  might  have  been  killed  in  falling  from 
there,  but  most  certainly  we  are  not  killed;  and  if  we 
had  not  fallen  we  should  still  be  up  there,  and  how  I 
should  have  found  heart  to  make  such  a  devil  of  a  leap 
I  am  not  at  all  aware.  Here  we  are  down  and  nothing 
the  worse  save  for  this  disaster  that,  curse  me,  my 
whisky  is  gone  again.  Thus  there  is  cause  for  praise 
in  everything,  as  I  have  told  you,  and  in  this  fall  such 
mighty  good  cause  as  I  shall  challenge  you  or  any  man 
to  look  at  that  roof  and  deny.  Now,"  continued  Mr. 
Puddlebox,  getting  to  his  feet,  "  do  you  beat  your  head 
again,  boy,  or  do  we  proceed  to  the  farmhouse?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  said  seriously,  "  No,  I'm  damned  if  I  beat 
my  head  now,  because  that  time  I  didn't  stop  and 
didn't  think  except  just  for  a  second  when  we  were 
falHng,  and  then  I  couldn't  stop  even  if  I'd  wanted  to. 
No,  I'm  damned  if  I  beat  my  head  this  time." 

"  What  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  emptying  his 
tail-pocket  of  the  broken  whisky  bottle,  and  proceeding 
with  Mr.  Wriford  towards  the  farmhouse,  "  what  it 
is,  is  that  you  are  damned  if  you  do  beat  your  head  — 
that  is,  you  are  spooked,  loony,  which  is  the  same  thing." 

Mr.  Wriford  paid  no  apparent  attention  to  this,  but 
his  glee  at  believing  that,  as  he  had  said,  he  now  was  not 
caring  and  now  was  living,  gave  an  excited  fierceness 
to  his  share  in  their  immediate  behaviour,  which  now 
became  very  extraordinary. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PROFOUND   ATTACHMENT   TO   HIS   FARM   OF   A   FARMER 


The  front  door  of  the  farmhouse,  embowered  in  a 
porch,  was  found  to  be  on  the  side  further  from  the 
strawyard.  A  fine  knocker,  very  massive,  hung  upon 
the  door,  and  this  Mr.  Puddlebox  now  seized  and 
operated  very  loudly,  with  effect  of  noise  which,  echoing 
through  the  silent  house  and  through  the  still  air  of 
early  morning,  would  in  former  circumstances  have 
utterly  horrified  Mr.  Wriford  and  have  put  him  to 
panic-stricken  flight  in  very  natural  apprehension  of 
what  it  would  bring  forth.  Now,  however,  it  had  no 
other  effect  upon  him  than  first  to  make  him  give  a 
nervous  gasp  and  nervous  laugh  of  nervous  glee,  and 
next  himself  to  seize  the  knocker  and  put  into  it  all 
the  determination  of  those  old  days  forever  ended  and 
these  new  days  of  freedom  in  which  he  cared  for  nothing 
and  for  nobody  now  begun. 

Fiercely  Mr,  Wriford  knocked  until  his  arm  was  tired 
and  then  flung  down  the  knocker  with  a  last  crash  and 
turned  on  Mr.  Puddlebox  a  flushed  face  and  eyes  that 
gleamed.  "  I  don't  care  a  damn  what  happens!  "  he 
cried. 

"  My  word,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  gazing  at  him, 
"  something  is  like  to  happen  now  after  all  that  din. 
You've  got  hold  of  yourself  this  time,  boy." 

125 


126  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Mr.  Wriford  laughed  recklessly.  "  I'll  show  you," 
he  cried,  "  I'll  show  you  this  time!  "  and  took  up  the 
knocker  again. 

But  something  was  shown  without  his  further  effort. 
His  hand  was  scarcely  put  to  the  knocker,  when  a  case- 
ment window  grated  above  the  porch  in  which  they 
stood,  and  a  very  harsh  voice  cried:  "What's  up? 
Who's  that?  What's  the  matter  there?  "  and  then 
with  a  change  of  tone:  "  What's  that  light  in  the  sky? 
Is  there  a  fire?  " 

Mr.  Wriford,  his  new  fierceness  of  not  caring,  of  let- 
ting himself  go,  fierce  upon  him,  was  for  rushing  out 
of  the  porch  to  look  up  at  the  \vindow  and  face  this 
inquiry,  but  Mr.  Puddlebox  a  moment  restrained  him. 
"  That's  our  old  villain  for  sure,"  Mr.  ]  'uddlebox  whis- 
pered. "  There's  no  ghost  of  light  in  the  sky  that  fire 
would  make;  but  he's  prepared  for  one,  and  that  proves 
him  the  old  villain  that  he  is." 

"Now,  then!"  rasped  the  voice.  "Who  are  you 
down  there?  What's  up?  What's  that  light  in  the 
sky?  " 

Out  from  the  porch  charged  Mr.  Wriford,  Mr.  Puddle- 
box  with  a  hand  on  his  arm  bidding  him:  "  Go  warily, 
boy;  leave  this  to  me." 

So  they  faced  the  window,  and  there,  sure  enough, 
framed  within  it,  was  displayed  the  gentleman  that  had 
been  seen  with  the  lantern,  with  the  black  scrub  upon 
his  upper  lip,  and  with  the  yellow  teeth  protruded  be- 
neath it. 

"  That  light  is  the  moon,"  Mr.  Puddlebox  informed 
him  pleasantly.  "  Luna,  the  dear  old  moon.  Queen- 
Empress  of  the  skies." 

"  The  moon!  "  shouted  the  yellow-toothed  gentleman. 


PROFOUND  ATTACHMENT  127 

"  The  moon!  Who  the  devil  are  you,  and  what's  your 
business?  " 

Mr.  Puddlebox  responded  stoutly  to  this  rough  ad- 
dress. "  Why,  what  to  the  devil  else  should  it  be  but 
the  moon?    Is  it  something  else  you're  looking  for  —  ?  " 

The  yellow-toothed  gentleman  interrupted  him  by 
leaning  out  to  his  waist  from  the  window  and  bellowing: 
"  Something  else!  Come,  what  the  devil's  up  and 
what's  your  business,  or  I'll  rouse  the  house  and  set 
about  the  pair  of  'ee." 

Then  Mr.  Wriford,  no  longer  to  be  restrained.  Mr. 
Wriford,  fierce  to  indulge  his  resolution  not  to  care  for 
anybody  and  shaking  with  the  excitement  of  it.  Mr. 
Wriford,  to  Mr.  Puddlebox's  much  astonishment,  in 
huge  and  ferocious  bawl:  "What's  up!"  bawled  Mr. 
Wriford,  hopping  about  in  reckless  ecstasy  of  fierceness. 
"  What's  up!  Why,  you  know  jolly  well  w^hat's  up, 
you  beastly  old  villain.  Tried  to  set  your  barn  afire, 
you  ugly-faced  old  scoundrel!  I  saw  you!  I  was  in 
there!  I  saw  you  with  your  lamp!  Come  down,  you 
rotten- toothed  old  fiend!  Come  down  and  have  your 
face  smashed,  you  miserable  old  sinner!  " 

The  gentleman  thus  opprobriously  addressed  disap- 
peared with  great  swiftness,  and  immediately  could  be 
heard  thumping  down-stairs  with  sounds  that  betokened 
bare  feet. 

"  That's  done  it,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  wiping  his  face 
which  was  very  hot,  and  placed  himself  before  the 
porch  to  await  the  expected  arrival. 

"  My  goodness,  it  has,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  You've 
let  yourself  go  this  time,  boy.  And  what  the  devil  is 
going  to  happen  next  —  " 

"  I'll  show  you,"  cried  Mr.  Wriford  and,  as  the  key 


128  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

turned  in  the  lock  and  the  door  opened,  proceeded  to 
the  demonstration  thus  promised  with  a  fierceness  of 
action  even  more  astonishing  than  his  earlier  outburst 
of  words. 

The  door  was  no  sooner  opened  to  reveal  the  yellow- 
toothed  gentleman  in  his  nightshirt  and  bare  feet,  than 
Mr.  Wriford  rushed  upon  him,  seized  him  by  his  flowing 
garment,  and  dragged  him  forth  into  the  yard.  Mr. 
Wriford  then  revolved  very  swiftly,  causing  the  yellow- 
toothed  gentleman,  who  had  the  wider  ambit  to  perform, 
to  revolve  more  swiftly  yet,  and  this  on  naked  feet  that 
made  him  complain  very  loudly  and  bound  very  highly 
when  they  hghted  upon  a  stone,  spun  him  in  these 
dizzy  circles  down  the  yard,  and  after  a  final  maze  at 
final  speed  released  him  with  the  result  that  the  yellow- 
toothed  gentleman  first  performed  a  giddy  whirl  entirely 
on  his  own  account,  then  the  half  of  another  on  his 
heels  and  in  mortal  danger  of  overbalancing,  and  then, 
with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world  to  complete  this 
circuit,  was  checked  by  waltzing  into  his  duck-pond, 
wherein  with  a  very  loud  shriek  he  disappeared. 

Mr.  Wriford  again  wiped  his  face,  which  was  now 
much  hotter  than  before,  and  with  a  cry  of  "  Come  on!  " 
to  Mr.  Puddlebox,  who  was  staring  in  amazement 
towards  the  pond  and  its  struggling  occupant,  made  a 
run  to  the  house.  Mr.  Puddlebox  joined  him  within 
the  door,  and  Mr.  Wriford  then  locked  the  door  behind 
them,  and  looking  very  elatedly  at  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
inquired  of  him  triumphantly:  "  Well,  what  about 
that?  " 

"  Loony,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  I  never  saw  the  like 
of  it.    It's  a  licker." 

"So  it  is!"  cried  Mr.  Wriford.     ''I  fairly  buzzed 


PROFOUND  ATTACHMENT  129 

him,  didn't  I?  You  needn't  whisper.  There's  no  one 
here  but  ourselves,  I'm  pretty  sure.  I'm  pretty  sure 
that  chap's  managed  to  get  the  place  to  himself  so  that 
he  could  make  no  mistake  about  getting  his  barn  burnt 
down.  An^^vay,  I'm  going  to  see,  and  I  don't  care  a 
dash  if  there  is."  And  by  way  of  seeing,  Mr.  Wriford 
put  up  his  head  and  shouted:  "Hulloa!  Hulloa,  is 
there  anybody  in  here?  " 

*'  Hulloa!  "  echoed  Mr.  Puddlebox,  subscribing  with 
great  glee  to  Mr.  Wriford's  excitement. 

"  Hulloa!  "  cried  Mr.  Wriford  in  a  very  loud  voice. 
"  If  anybody  wants  a  hit  in  the  eye  come  along  down 
and  ask  for  it!  " 

To  this  engaging  invitation  there  was  from  within 
the  house  no  answer;  but  from  without,  against  the 
door,  a  very  loud  thud  which  was  the  yellow-toothed 
gentleman  hurling  himself  against  it,  and  then  his  lists 
beating  against  it  and  his  voice  crying:  "Let  me  in! 
Let  me  in,  won't  you!  " 

"  No,  I  won't!  "  called  Mr.  Wriford,  and  answered 
the  banging  with  lusty  and  defiant  kicks.  "  Get  back 
to  your  pond  or  I'll  come  and  throw  you  there." 

"  I'm  cold,"  cried  the  yellow-toothed  gentleman, 
changing  his  voice  to  one  of  entreaty.  "  Look  here,  I 
want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Go  and  light  your  barn  again  and  warm  yourself," 
shouted  Mr.  Puddlebox;  but  the  laughter  with  which 
he  shouted  it  was  suddenly  checked,  for  the  yellow- 
toothed  gentleman  was  heard  to  call:  "Hullo!  Hi! 
Jo!    Quick,  Jo!    Come  along  quick !  " 

"  Boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  we  ought  to  have  got 
away  from  this  while  he  was  in  the  pond.  What  to  the 
devil's  going  to  happen  now?  " 


I30  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

"Listen,"  said  Mr.  Wriford;  but  they  had  scarcely 
Ustened  a  minute  before  there  happened  a  sound  of 
breaking  glass  in  an  adjoining  room.  "  They're  get- 
ting in  through  a  window,"  cried  Mr.  Wriford.  "  We 
must  keep  them  out." 

Several  doors  led  from  the  spacious  old  hall  in  which 
they  stood,  and  Mr.  Puddlebox,  choosing  one,  chose 
the  wrong  one,  for  here  was  an  apartment  whose  window 
stood  intact  and  beyond  which  the  sounds  of  entry 
could  still  be  heard.  A  further  door  in  this  room  that 
might  have  led  to  them  was  found  to  be  locked  and 
without  key.  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  Mr.  Wriford  charged 
back  to  the  hall,  down  the  hall  alongside  this  room, 
through  a  door  which  led  to  a  passage  behind  it,  and 
thence  through  another  door  which  revealed  one  gentle- 
man in  his  nightshirt,  yellow  and  black  with  mire  from 
head  to  foot,  who  was  reaching  down  a  wide-mouthed 
gun  from  the  wall,  and  another  gentleman  in  corduroys, 
ha\ing  a  bucolic  countenance  which  was  very  white, 
who  in  the  act  of  entry  had  one  leg  on  the  floor  and 
the  other  through  the  window. 

II 

"  If  they've  got  in  we'll  run  for  it,"  Mr.  Puddlebox 
had  said  as  they  came  down  the  passage.  But  the  room 
was  entered  so  impetuously  that  the  only  running  done 
was,  perforce,  into  it,  and  at  that  with  a  stumbling  rush 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Puddlebox  into  the  back  of  the  night- 
shirt and  the  collapse  of  Mr.  Wriford  over  Mr.  Puddle- 
box's  heels  upon  him.  Mr.  Puddlebox  encircled  the 
nightshirt  about  its  waist  with  his  arms;  the  nightshirt, 
gun  in  hand,  staggered  towards  the  corduroy  and  with 


PROFOUND  ATTACHMENT  131 

the  gun  swept  its  supporting  leg  from  under  it;  the  gun 
discharged  itself  through  its  bell-shaped  mouth  with  an 
appalling  explosion;  the  corduroy  with  a  loud  shriek 
to  the  effect  that  he  was  dead  fell  upon  the  head  of  the 
nightshirt;  and  there  was  immediately  a  tumult  of  four 
bodies  with  sixteen  whirhng  legs  and  arms,  no  party  to 
which  had  any  clear  perception  as  to  the  Hmbs  that 
belonged  to  himself,  or  any  other  strategy  of  campaign 
than  to  claw  and  thump  at  whatever  portion  of  who- 
ever's  body  offered  itself  for  the  process.  There  were, 
with  all  this,  cries  of  very  many  kinds  and  much  ob- 
scenity of  meaning,  changing  thrice  to  a  universal 
bellow  of  horror  as  first  a  table  and  its  contents  dis- 
charged itself  upon  the  mass,  then  a  dresser  with  an 
artillery  of  plates  and  dishes,  and  finally  a  grandfather 
clock  which,  descending  sideways  along  the  wall,  swept 
with  it  a  comprehensive  array  of  mural  decorations. 

Assortment  of  arms  and  legs  was  at  length  begun  out 
of  all  this  welter  by  the  corduroyed  gentleman  who, 
finding  himself  not  dead  as  he  had  beheved,  but  in  great 
danger  of  reaching  that  state  in  some  very  horrible 
form,  found  also  his  own  hands  and  knees  and  upon 
them  crawled  away  very  rapidly  towards  an  adjoining 
room  whose  door  stood  invitingly  open.  There  were 
fastened  to  his  legs  as  he  did  so  a  pair  of  hands  whose 
owner  he  first  drew  after  him,  then  dislodged  by,  on  the 
threshold  of  the  open  door,  beating  at  them  with  ^ 
broken  plate,  and  having  done  so,  sprung  upright  to 
make  for  safety.  The  owner  of  the  hands  however 
sprung  with  him,  attached  them  —  and  it  was  Mr. 
Wriford  —  to  his  throat,  and  thrust  him  backwards  into 
the  adjoining  room  and  into  the  midst  of  several  shallow 
pans  of  milk  with  which  the  floor  of  this  room  was  set. 


132  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

This  apartment  was,  in  fact,  the  dairy;  and  here, 
while  thunder  and  crashing  proceeded  from  the  other 
room  in  which  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  the  nightshirt  wel- 
tered, extraordinary  contortions  to  the  tune  of  great 
splashing  and  tin-pan  crashing  were  forced  upon  the 
corduroyed  gentleman  by  Mr.  Wriford's  hands  at  his 
throat.  Broad  shelves  encircled  this  room,  and  first 
the  corduroyed  gentleman  was  bent  backwards  over  the 
lowest  of  these  until  the  back  of  his  head  adhered  to 
some  pounds  of  butter,  then  whirled  about  and  bent 
sideways  until  in  some  peril  of  meeting  his  end  by  suf- 
focation in  cream,  then  incUned  to  the  other  side  until 
a  basket  of  eggs  were  no  longer  at  their  highest  market 
value,  and  finally  hurled  from  Mr.  Wriford  to  go  full 
length  and  with  a  large  white  splash  into  what  pans  of 
milk  remained  in  position  on  the  floor. 

Mr:  Wriford,  with  a  loud  "Ha!"  of  triumph,  and 
feeling,  though  greatly  bruised  in  the  first  portion  of  the 
fight  and  much  besmeared  with  dairy-produce  in  the 
second,  much  more  of  a  man  than  he  had  ever  felt  be- 
fore, then  dashed  through  the  door  and  locked  it  upon 
the  corduroy's  struggles  to  free  himself  from  death  in  a 
milky  grave,  and  then  prepared  to  give  fierce  assistance 
to  the  drier  but  as  deadly  fray  still  waging  between 
Mr.  Puddlebox  and  the  nightshirt. 

Upon  the  welter  of  crockery  and  other  debris  here  to 
view,  these  combatants  appeared  to  be  practising  for 
a  combined  rolling  match,  or  to  be  engaged  in  rolhng  the 
litter  into  a  smooth  and  equable  surface.  Locked  very 
closely  together  by  their  arms,  and  with  equal  intensity 
by  their  legs,  they  rolled  first  to  one  end  of  the  room  or 
to  a  piece  of  overturned  furniture  and  then,  as  if  by 
common  consent,  back  again  to  the  other  end  or  to  an- 


PROFOUND  ATTACHMENT  133 

other  obstacle.  This  they  performed  with  immense 
swiftness  and  with  no  vocal  sounds  save  very  distressed 
breathing  as  they  rolled  and  very  loud  and  simultane- 
ous Ur!  as  they  checked  at  the  end  of  a  roll  and  started 
back  for  the  next. 

As  Mr.  Wriford  watched,  himself  breathing  immensely 
after  his  own  exertions  yet  laughing  excitedly  at  what  he 
saw,  he  was  given  opportunity  of  taking  part  by  the 
rollers  introducing  a  new  diversion  into  their  exercise. 
This  was  provided  by  the  grandfather  clock,  which, 
embedded  in  the  debris  like  a  partly  submerged  coffin, 
now  obstructed  their  progress.  A  common  spirit  of 
splendid  determination  not  to  be  stopped  by  it  appeared 
simultaneously  to  animate  them.  With  one  very  loud  Ur! 
they  came  against  it;  with  a  second  and  a  third  and 
each  time  a  louder  Ur!  charged  it  again  and  again ;  with 
a  fourth  Ur!  magnificently  mounted  it;  and  with  a 
fifth,  the  debris  on  this  side  being  lower,  plunged  down 
from  it.  The  shock  in  some  degree  relaxed  their  em- 
brace one  with  the  other.  From  their  locked  forms  a 
pair  of  naked  legs  upshot.  Mr.  Wriford  jumped  for 
the  ankles,  clutched  them  amain,  and  with  the  infor- 
mation "  I've  got  his  legs!  "  and  with  its  effect,  en- 
couraged Mr.  Puddlebox  to  a  mighty  effort,  whereby 
at  length  he  broke  free  from  the  other's  grasp,  sat  up- 
right upon  the  nightshirt's  chest,  and  then,  securing 
its  arms,  faced  about  towards  Mr.  Wriford,  and  seated 
himself  upon  the  nightshirt's  forehead. 

"  Where's  yours?  "  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  when  he 
had  collected  sufficient  breath  for  the  question. 

"  Locked  up  in  there,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  nodding 
his  head  towards  the  dairy. 

"  Loony,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  this  has  been  the 


134  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

most  devil  of  a  thing  that  ever  any  man  has  been  in, 
and  I  challenge  you  or  any  man  ever  to  have  been  in  a 
worse." 

"  I'll  have  you  in  a  worse,"  bawled  the  nightshirt. 
"  I'll  —  "  and  as  though  incapable  of  giving  sufficient 
words  to  his  intentions  he  opened  his  mouth  very 
widely  and  emitted  from  it  a  long  and  roaring  bellow. 
Into  this  cavern  of  his  jaws  Mr.  Puddlebox,  now  kneel- 
ing on  the  nightshirt's  arms,  dropped  a  cloth  cap  very 
conveniently  abandoned  by  the  corduroy;  and  then, 
facing  across  the  prostrate  form,  Mr.  Puddlebox  and 
Mr.  Wriford  went  into  a  hysteria  of  laughter  only 
checked  at  last  by  the  nightshirt,  successfully  advan- 
taging himself  of  the  weakening  effect  of  their  mirth, 
making  a  tremendous  struggle  to  overthrow  them. 

"  But,  loony,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  when  the  farmer 
was  again  mastered,  "  we  are  best  out  of  this,  for  such 
a  battle  I  could  by  no  means  fight  again." 

"  Well,  I  don't  care,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  I  don't 
care  a  dash  what  happens  or  who  comes.  Still,  we'd 
better  go.  First  we  must  tie  this  chap  up  and  then 
dean  ourselves.  My  man's  all  right  in  there.  There's 
no  window  where  he  is  —  only  a  grating  round  the  top. 
I'll  find  something  to  fix  this  one  with  if  you  can  hold 
his  legs." 

This  Mr.  Puddlebox,  by  kneeling  upon  the  nightshirt's 
arms  and  stretching  over  them  to  his  legs,  was  able  to 
do,  and  Mr.  Wriford,  voyaging  the  dishevelled  room, 
gave  presently  a  gleeful  laugh  and  presented  himself 
before  Mr.  Puddlebox  with  a  wooden  box  and  with  in- 
formation that  made  Mr.  Puddlebox  laugh  also  and  the 
nightshirt,  unable  to  shout,  to  express  his  personal  view 
in  new  and  tremendous  struggles. 


PROFOUND  ATTACHMENT  135 

"  Nails,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  "  and  a  hammer.  We'll 
nail  him  down;  "  and  very  methodically,  working  along 
each  side  of  each  extended  arm,  and  down  each  border 
of  the  nightshirt  pulled  taut  across  his  person,  proceeded 
to  attach  the  yellow-toothed  gentleman  to  the  floor 
more  Uterally  and  more  closely  than  any  occupier, 
unless  similarly  fastened,  can  ever  have  been  attached 
to  his  boyhood's  home, 

"  There!  "  said  Mr.  Wriford,  stepping  back  and  re- 
garding his  handiwork,  which  was  indeed  very  creditably 
performed,  with  conscionable  satisfaction.  "  There 
you  are,  my  boy,  as  tight  as  a  sardine  Ud,  and  if  you 
utter  a  sound  you'll  get  one  through  your  head  as 
well." 

This,  however,  was  a  contingency  which  the  night- 
shirt, thanks  to  the  cap  in  his  mouth,  was  in  no  great 
danger  of  arousing,  and  leaving  him  to  enjoy  the  flavour 
of  his  gag  and  his  unique  metallic  bordering,  which  from 
the  hue  of  his  countenance  and  the  flame  of  his  eyes 
he  appeared  indisposed  to  do,  there  now  followed  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Wriford  and  Mr.  Puddlebox  a  very  welcome 
and  a  highly  necessary  adjustment  of  their  toilets.  It 
was  performed  by  Mr.  Puddlebox  with  his  mouth  pro- 
digiously distended  with  a  meal  collected  from  the 
kitchen,  and  by  Mr.  Wriford,  as  he  cooled,  with  aston- 
ished reflection  upon  the  extraordinary  escapades  which 
he  had  now  added  to  his  exploits  of  the  previous  day. 
"  Well,  this  is  a  most  extraordinary  state  of  affairs  for 
me,"  reflected  Mr.  Wriford,  much  as  he  had  reflected 
earlier  in  the  morning.  "  Most  extraordinary,  I'm 
dashed  if  it  isn't!  I've  pretty  well  killed  a  chap  and 
drowned  him  in  milk;  and  I've  slung  a  chap  into  a  pond 
and  then  nailed  him  down  by  his  nightshirt.    Well,  I'm 


136  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

doing  things  at  last;    and  I  don't  care  a  dash  what 
happens;  and  I  don't  care  a  dash  what  comes  next." 

Ill 

Now  this  cogitation  took  place  in  an  upper  room 
whither  Mr.  Wriford  had  repaired  in  quest  of  soap  and 
brushes,  and  what  came  next  came  at  once  and  came 
very  quickly,  being  first  reported  by  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
who  at  this  point  rushed  up-stairs  to  announce  as  rap- 
idly as  his  distended  mouth  would  permit:  "  Loony, 
there's  a  cart  come  up  to  the  door  with  four  men  in  it 
—  hulkers!"  and  next  illustrated  by  a  loud  knocking 
responsive  to  which  there  immediately  arose  from  the 
imprisoned  corduroy  a  great  shouting  and  from  the 
gagged  and  nailed-down  nightshirt  a  muffied  blaring  as 
of  a  cow  restrained  from  its  calf. 

Very  much  quicker  than  might  be  supposed,  and 
while  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  Mr.  Wriford  stared  one  upon 
the  other  in  irresolute  concern,  these  sounds  blended  into 
an  enormous  hullabaloo  below  stairs  which  spoke  of  the 
entry  by  the  window  of  the  new  arrivals,  of  the  release 
from  his  gag  of  the  nailed-down  nightshirt  and  from  his 
milky  gaol  of  the  miprisoned  corduroy,  and  finally  of 
wild  and  threatening  search  which  now  came  pouring 
very  alarmingly  up  the  stairs. 

Mr.  Wriford  locked  the  door,  Mr.  Puddlebox  opened 
the  wmdow,  and  immediately  their  door  was  first 
rattled  with  cries  of  "Here  they  are!"  and  then  as- 
sailed by  propulsion  against  it  of  very  violent  bodies. 

The  drop  from  the  window  was  not  one  to  be  taken  in 
cold  blood.  It  was  taken,  nevertheless,  side  by  side  and 
at  hurtling  speed  by  Mr.  Wriford  and  by  Mr.  Puddlebox 


PROFOUND   ATTACHMENT  137 

through  each  half  of  the  casement;  and  this  done,  and 
the  concussion  recovered  from,  the  farm  surroundings 
which  divided  them  from  the  road  were  taken  also  at 
headlong  bounds  accelerated  when  midway  across  by 
a  loud  crash  and  by  ferocious  view-hulloas  from  the 
window. 

The  boundary  hedge  was  gained.  There  was  pre- 
sented to  the  fugitives  a  roadside  inn  having  before  it, 
travel-stained,  throbbing,  and  unattended,  a  very  hand- 
some touring  motor-car.  There  was  urged  upon  their 
resources  as  they  jumped  to  the  road  the  sight  of  two 
men  red-hot  in  their  rear  and,  more  alarmingly,  three 
led  by  the  milky  corduroy  short-cutting  towards  their 
flank. 

"  BHnk!  "  gasped  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "BHnk!  Hide!" 
and  ran  two  bewildered  paces  up  the  road  and  three 
distracted  paces  down  it. 

"  Hide  where?  "  panted  Mr.  Wriford,  his  wits  much 
shaken  by  his  run,  by  the  close  sight  of  the  pursuit,  and 
more  than  ever  by  Mr.  Puddlebox  bumping  into  him  as 
he  turned  in  his  first  irresolution  and  colliding  with  him 
again  as  he  turned  in  his  second. 

"  Blink!  —  Here,"  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox,  made  a  dash 
at  the  motor-car  —  Mr.  Wriford  in  bewildered  confusion 
on  his  heels  —  opened  the  door,  and  closing  it  behind 
them,  crouched  with  Mr.  Wriford  on  the  floor. 

"  Run  for  it  the  opposite  way  as  soon  as  they  pass 
us,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  This  is  a  very  devil  of  a 
business,  and  I  will  challenge —  Here  they  come!  " 

But,  quicker  than  they,  came  also  another,  and  he 
from  the  inn.  This  was  a  young  man  in  livery  of  a 
chauffeur,  who  emerged  very  hurriedly  wiping  his  mouth 
and    telling   the   landlord   who    followed   him:     "  My 


138  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

gov'nor  won't  be  half  wild  if  I  ain't  there  by  two 
o'clock."  With  which  he  jumped  very  nimbly  to  his 
wheel,  released  his  clutch,  and  with  no  more  than  a 
glance  at  the  milky  corduroy  and  his  friends  who  now 
came  baying  down  the  hedge,  was  in  a  moment  bearing 
Mr.  Puddlebox  and  Mr.  Wriford  at  immense  speed 
towards  wherever  it  was  that  his  impatient  gov'nor 
awaited  him. 

Mr.  Wriford  put  his  hands  to  his  head  and  said,  more 
to  himself  than  to  Mr.  Puddlebox:  "  Well,  this  is  the 
most  extraordinary  —  " 

Mr.  Puddlebox  settled  his  back  against  the  seat,  and 
cocking  a  very  merry  eye  at  Mr.  Wriford,  chanted  with 
enormous  fervour: 

"  0  ye  motors  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord:  praise 
Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FIRST   PERSON   EXTRAORDINARY 

"  Well  —  "  said  Mr.  Wriford  to  himself. 

There  is  to  be  added  here,  as  bringing  Mr.  Wriford 
to  this  exclamation,  that  at  midday  the  chauffeur, 
having  whirled  through  rural  England  at  great  speed 
for  some  hours  on  end,  again  drevv^  up  at  a  roadside  inn 
no  less  isolated  than  that  at  which  he  had  first  accom- 
modated his  passengers,  and  had  no  sooner  repaired 
within  than  Mr.  Puddlebox,  first  protruding  a  cautious 
head  and  finding  no  soul  in  sight,  then  led  out  the  way 
through  the  further  door  and  then  up  the  road  until  a 
friendly  hedgeside  invited  them  to  rest  and  to  the 
various  foods  which  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  brought  from 
the  farm  and  now  produced  from  his  pockets. 

Mr.  Wriford  ate  in  silence,  and  nothing  that  Mr. 
Puddlebox  could  say  could  fetch  him  from  his  thoughts. 
"  Well,"  thought  Mr.  Wriford,  "  this  is  the  most  ex- 
traordinary state  of  affairs!  A  week  ago  I  was  an 
editor  in  London  and  afraid  of  everything  and  every- 
body. Now  I've  been  in  the  river,  and  I've  stolen  a  ride 
in  a  wagon,  and  I've  had  a  devil  of  a  fight  with  a 
wagoner,  and  I've  kicked  a  policeman  head  over  heels 
bang  into  a  ditch,  and  I've  nearly  been  burnt  alive, 
and  I've  broken  out  through  the  roof  of  a  barn  and 
fallen  a  frightful  buster  off  it,  and  I've  slung  a  chap 
into  a  pond,  and  I've  nearly  killed  a  chap  and  half- 

139 


I40  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

drowned  him  in  milk,  and  I've  nailed  a  man  to  the 
floor  by  his  nightshirt,  and  I've  jumped  out  of  a  high 
window  and  been  chased  for  my  life,  and  I've  stolen 
a  ride  in  a  motor-car,  and  where  the  devil  I  am  now 
I  haven't  the  remotest  idea.  Well,  it's  the  most 
extraordinary  —  ! '' 


BOOK  THREE 
ONE    OF    THE    FRIGHTENED    ONES 


BOOK   THREE 
ONE    OF   THE    FRIGHTENED    ONES 

CHAPTER  I 

BODY   WORK 


It  was  in  early  May  that  Mr.  Wriford  cast  himself 
into  the  river.  Declining  Summer,  sullied  in  her  rai- 
ment by  September's  hand,  slain  by  October's,  found 
him  still  in  Mr.  Puddlebox's  company.  But  a  different 
Wriford  from  him  whom  that  jolly  gentleman  had  first 
met  upon  the  road  from  Barnet.  In  body  a  harder  man, 
what  of  the  open  life,  the  mad  adventures,  and  of  the 
casual  work  —  all  manual  work  —  in  farm  and  field 
that  suppHed  their  necessaries  when  these  ran  short. 
And  harder  man  in  soul.  "  You're  a  confirmed  rascal, 
sir,"  addressed  him  the  chairman  of  a  Bench  of  country 
magistrates  before  whom  —  and  not  their  first  experi- 
ence of  such  —  he  and  Mr.  Puddlebox  once  were  haled, 
their  offence  that  they  had  been  found  sleeping  in  the 
outbuildings  of  a  rural  parsonage. 

The  rector,  a  gentleman,  appearing  unwillingly  to 
prosecute,  pleaded  for  the  prisoners.  A  trivial  offence, 
he  urged  —  a  stormy  night  on  which  he  would  gladly 

143 


144  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

have  given  them  shelter  had  they  asked  for  it,  and  he 
turned  to  the  dock  with:  "  Why  did  you  not  come  and 
ask  for  it,  my  friend?  " 

"  Why,  there'd  have  been  no  fun  in  doing  that!  "  said 
Mr.  Wriford. 

"  Fun!  "  exclaimed  the  rector.  "  No,  no  fun  per- 
haps.   But  a  hearty  welcome  I  —  " 

"  Oh,  keep  your  hearty  welcomes  to  yourself!  "  cried 
Mr.  Wriford. 

And  then  the  chairman:  "  You're  a  confirmed  rascal, 
sir.  A  confirmed  and  stubborn  rascal.  When  our 
good  vicar  —  " 

"  Well,  you're  a  self-important,  over-fed,  and  very 
gross-looking  pomposity,"  returned  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  Seven  days,"  said  the  chairman,  very  swollen. 
"  Take  them  away,  constable." 

"  Curse  me,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  when,  accommo- 
dated for  the  night  in  adjoining  cells,  they  conversed 
over  the  partition  that  divided  them.  "  Curse  me, 
you're  no  better  than  a  fool,  loony,  and  I  challenge  any 
man  to  be  a  bigger.  Here  we  are  at  these  vile  tasks 
for  a  week  and  would  have  got  away  scot  free  and  a 
shilling  from  the  parson  but  for  your  fool's  tongue." 

"  Well,  I  had  to  say  something  to  stir  them  up,"  ex- 
plained Mr.  Wriford.  "  I  must  be  doing  something  all 
the  time,  or  I  get  —  " 

"  Well,  there's  better  things  to  do  than  this  cursed 
foolishness,"  grumbled  Mr.  Puddlebox. 

"  It's  new  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  That's  what 
I  want." 

That  indeed  was  what  he  wanted  in  these  months 
and  ever  sought  with  sudden  bursts  of  fierceness  or  of 
irresponsible  prankishness.     He  must  be  doing  some- 


BODY  WORK  145 

thing  all  the  time  and  doing  something  that  brought 
reprisals,  either  in  form  of  fatigue  that  followed  hard 
work  in  their  odd  jobs  —  digging,  carting  stable  refuse, 
hoeing  a  long  patch  of  root  crops,  harvesting  which 
gave  the  pair  steady  employment  and  left  them  at  the 
turn  of  the  year  with  a  stock  of  shilUngs  in  hand,  road- 
side work  where  labour  had  fallen  short  and  a  builder 
was  behindhand  with  a  contract  for  some  cottages  — 
or  in  form  of  punishment  such  as  followed  his  truculence 
before  the  magistrate  or  was  got  by  escapades  of  the 
nature  of  their  early  adventures. 

Something  that  brought  reprisals,  something  to  be 
felt  in  his  body.  "  Why,  you  don't  understand,  you 
see,"  Mr.  Wriford  would  cry,  responsive  to  remonstrance 
from  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  All  my  life  I've  felt  things  here 
—  here  in  my  head,"  and  he  would  strike  his  head  hard 
and  begin  to  speak  loudly  and  very  fiercely  and  quickly, 
so  that  often  his  words  rolled  themselves  together  or 
were  several  times  repeated.  "  In  my  head,  head, 
head  —  all  mixed  up  and  whirling  there  so  I  felt  I  must 
scream  to  let  it  all  out:  scream  out  senseless  words  and 
loud  roars  like  uggranddlearrrrohohohgarragarragad- 
daurrr!  Now  my  head's  empty,  empty,  empty,  and  I 
can  smash  at  it  as  if  it  didn't  belong  to  me.    Look  here !  " 

"  Ah,  stop  it,  boy,  stop  it!  "  Mr.  Puddlebox  would 
cry,  and  catch  at  Mr.  Wriford's  fist  that  banged  in  il- 
lustration. 

"  Well,  that's  just  to  show  you.  Man  alive,  I've  stood 
sometimes  in  my  office  with  my  head  in  such  a  whirling 
crash,  and  feeling  so  sick  and  frightened  —  that  always 
went  with  it  —  that  I've  felt  I  must  catch  by  the  throat 
the  next  man  who  came  in  and  kill  him  dead  before  he 
could  speak  to  me.    In  my  head,  man,  in  my  head  — 


146  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

felt  things  all  my  life  in  my  head:  and  in  my  heart;  " 
and  Mr.  Wriford  would  strike  himself  fiercely  upon  hi*? 
breast.  "  Felt  things  in  my  heart  so  I  was  always  in  a 
torment  and  always  tying  myself  up  tighter  and  tighter 
and  tighter  —  not  doing  this  because  I  thought  it  was 
unkind  to  this  person;  and  doing  that  because  I  thought 
I  ought  to  do  it  for  that  person  —  messing,  messing, 
messing  round  and  spoiling  my  life  with  rotten  senti- 
ment and  rotten  ideas  of  rotten  duty.  God,  when  I 
think  of  the  welter  of  it  all!  Now,  my  boy,  it's  all 
over!  My  head's  as  empty  as  an  empty  bucket  and 
so's  my  heart.  I  don't  care  a  curse  for  anybody  or  any- 
thing. I'm  beginning  to  do  what  I  ought  to  have  done 
years  ago  —  enjoy  myself.  It's  only  my  body  now;  I 
want  to  ache  it  and  feel  it  and  hurt  it  and  keep  it  going 
all  the  time.  If  I  don't,  if  I  stop  going  and  going  and 
going,  I  begin  to  think;  and  if  I  begin  to  think  I 
begin  to  go  back  again.  Then  up  I  jump,  my  boy,  and 
let  fly  at  somebody  again,  or  dig  or  whatever  the  work 
is,  as  if  the  devil  was  in  me  and  until  my  body  is  ready 
to  break,  and  then  I  say  to  my  body:  '  Go  on,  you 
devil;  go  on.  I'll  keep  you  at  it  till  you  drop.  You've 
been  getting  soft  and  rotten  while  my  head  was  working 
and  driving  me.  Now  it's  your  turn.  But  you  don't 
drive  me,  my  boy;  I  drive  you.  Get  at  it! '  That's  the 
way  of  it,  Puddlebox.  I'm  free  now,  and  I'm  enjoying 
myself,  and  I  want  to  go  on  doing  new  things  and  doing 
them  hard,  always  and  all  the  time.    Now  then!  " 

Mr.  Puddlebox:  "  Sure  you're  enjoying  yourself, 
boy?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  I  am.  When  it  was  all  this  cursed 
head  and  all  worry  I  didn't  belong  to  myself.  Now  it's 
all  body,  and  I'm  my  own.    I've  missed  something  all 


BODY  WORK  147 

my  life.  Now  I'm  finding  it.  I'm  finding  what  it  is  to 
be  happy  —  it's  not  to  care.    That's  the  secret  of  it." 

Mr.  Puddlebox  would  shake  his  head.  "  That's  not 
the  secret  of  it,  boy." 

"  What  is,  then?  " 

"Why,  what  I've  told  you:  not  to  think  so  much 
about  yourself." 

"  Well,  that's  just  what  I'm  doing.  I'm  not  caring 
a  curse  what  happens  to  me." 

"  Yes,  and  thinking  about  that  all  the  time.  That's 
just  where  you're  spooked,  boy." 

"  Spooked!  "  Mr.  Wriford  would  cry  with  an  easy 
laugh.  "  That's  seeing  myself  like  I  used  to.  I've  not 
seen  myself  for  weeks  —  months." 

"  But  you're  not  unspooked  yet,  boy,"  Mr.  Puddle- 
box  would  return. 

II 

They  were  come  west  in  their  tramping  —  set  in  that 
quarter  by  the  motor-car  that  had  run  them  from  that 
early  adventure  with  the  nightshirted  and  the  cordu- 
royed gentlemen.  It  had  alighted  them  in  Wiltshire,  and 
they  continued,  while  splendid  summer  in  imperial  days 
and  pageant  nights  attended  them,  by  easy  and  hap- 
hazard stages  down  into  Dorset  and  thence  through 
Somerset  and  Devon  into  Cornwall  by  the  sea. 

Many  amazements  in  these  counties  and  in  these 
months  —  some  of  a  train  with  those  afforded  by  the 
liver-cutting  wagoner  and  by  the  yellow-toothed  farmer 
bent  upon  arson;  some  quieter,  but  to  Mr.  Wriford,  if 
he  permitted  thought,  not  less  amazing  —  as  when  he 
found  himself  working  with  his  hands  and  in  his  sweat 


148  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

for  manual  wages;  some  in  outrage  of  law  and  morals 
that  had  shocked  the  Mr.  Wriford  of  the  London  days. 
He  must  be  doing  something,  as  he  had  told  Mr.  Puddle- 
box,  and  doing  something  all  the  time.  What  he  did 
not  tell  was  that  these  things  —  when  they  were  wild, 
irresponsible,  grotesque,  wrong,  immoral  —  were  done 
by  conscious  effort  before  they  were  entered  upon.  Mr. 
Wriford  used  to  —  had  to  —  dare  himself  to  do  them. 
"  Now,  here  you  are!  "  Mr.  Wriford  would  say  to  him- 
self when  by  freakish  thought  some  opportunity  offered 
itself.  "  Here  you  are!  Ah,  you  funk  it!  I  knew  you 
would.  I  thought  so.  You  funk  it!  "  And  then,  thus 
taunted,  would  come  the  sudden  burst  of  fierceness  or 
of  irresponsible  prankishness,  and  Mr.  Wriford  would 
rush  at  the  thing  fiercely,  and  fiercely  begin  it,  and  with 
increasing  fierceness  carry  it  to  settlement  —  one  way 
or  the  other. 

Once,  up  from  a  roadside  to  a  labourer  who  came 
sturdily  by,  "  I'll  fight  you  for  tuppence!  "  cried  Mr. 
Wriford,  facing  him.  "  Ba  goom,  I'll  faight  thee  for 
nowt!  "  said  the  man  and  knocked  him  down,  and  when 
again  he  rushed,  furious  and  bleeding,  smashed  him 
again,  and  laughing  at  the  ease  of  it,  trod  on  his  way. 

"  Well,  why  to  the  devil  did  you  do  such  a  mad 
thing?  "  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  awakened  from  a  doze 
and  tending  Mr.  Wriford's  hurts.  "  Where  to  the  devil 
is  the  sense  of  such  a  thing?  " 

"  I  thought  of  it  as  he  came  along,"  said  Mr.  Wriford, 
"  and  I  had  to  do  it." 

"  Why,  curse  me,"  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  I  mustn't 
even  sleep  for  your  madness,  boy." 

"  Well,  I've  done  it,"  Mr.  Wriford  returned,  much 
hurt  but  fiercely  glad.    "  I've  done  it,  and  I'm  happy. 


BODY  WORK  149 

If  I  hadn't  —  oh,  you  wouldn't  understand.  That's 
enough.  Let  it  bleed.  Let  the  damned  thing  bleed. 
I  like  to  see  it." 

He  used  to  like  to  sit  and  count  liis  bruises.  He  used 
to  like,  after  hard  work  on  some  employment,  to  sit 
and  reckon  which  muscles  ached  him  most  and  then 
to  spring  up  and  exercise  them  so  they  ached  anew. 
He  used  to  like  to  sit  and  count  over  and  over  again  the 
money  that  their  casual  labours  earned  him.  These  — 
bruises,  and  aches  and  shillings  —  were  the  indisputable 
testimony  to  his  freedom,  to  the  fact  that  he  at  last 
was  doing  things,  to  the  reprisals  against  which  he  set 
his  body  and  full  earned.  He  used  to  like  to  go  long 
periods  without  food.  He  used  to  like,  when  rain  fell 
and  Mr.  Puddlebox  sought  shelter,  to  stand  out  in  the 
soak  of  it  and  feel  its  soak.  These  —  fastings  and  dis- 
comforts —  were  manifests  that  his  body  was  suffering 
things,  and  that  he  was  its  master  and  his  own. 

Through  all  these  excesses  —  checking  him  in  many, 
from  many  dissuading  him,  in  their  results  supporting 
him  —  Mr.  Puddlebox  stuck  to  him.  That  soft,  fat, 
kindly  and  protective  hand  came  often  between  him 
and  self-invited  violence  from  strangers  by  Mr.  Puddle- 
box —  when  Mr.  Wriford  was  not  looking  —  tapping  his 
head  and  accompanying  the  sign  with  nods  and  frowns 
in  further  illustration,  or  by  more  active  rescues  from 
his  escapades.  Chiefly  Mr.  Puddlebox  employed  his 
unfailing  good-humour  as  deterrent  of  Mr.  Wriford 's 
fierceness.  He  learnt  to  let  the  starvation,  or  the  ex- 
posure to  the  elements,  or  the  engagement  in  some  wild 
escapade,  go  to  a  certain  pitch,  then  to  argue  with  Mr. 
Wriford  until  he  made  him  angry,  then  by  some  jovial 
whimsicality  to  bring  him  against  his  will  to  involun- 


I50  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

tary  laughter;  then  Mr.  Wriford  would  be  pliable,  con- 
sent to  eat,  to  take  shelter,  to  cease  his  folly.  Much 
further  than  this  Mr.  Puddlebox  carried  the  affection 
he  had  conceived  for  Mr.  Wriford  —  and  all  it  cost  him. 
Once  when  lamentably  far  gone  in  his  cups,  he  was 
startled  out  of  their  effects  by  becoming  aware  that 
Mr.  Wriford  was  producing  from  his  pockets  articles 
that  glistened  beneath  the  moon  where  it  Ht  the  open- 
air  resting-place  to  which  he  had  no  recollection  of 
having  come. 

He  stared  amazed  at  two  watches,  a  small  clock, 
spoons,  and  some  silver  trinkets;  and  soon  by  further 
amazement  was  completely  sobered.  "  I've  done  it," 
said  Mr.  Wriford,  and  in  his  eyes  could  be  seen  the 
gleam,  and  in  his  voice  heard  the  nervous  exaltation,  that 
always  went  with  accomplishment  of  any  of  his  fierce- 
nesses. "I've  done  it!  It  was  a  devil  of  a  thing  —  right 
into  two  bedrooms  —  but  I've  done  it." 

Mr.  Puddlebox  in  immense  horror:    "  Done  what?  " 

"  Broken  in  there,"  and  Mr.  Wriford  jerked  back  his 
head  in  "  there's  "  indication,  and  Mr.  Puddlebox,  to 
his  new  and  frantic  alarm,  found  that  a  large  house 
stood  within  fifty  paces  of  them,  they  in  its  garden. 

"  Why,  you're  —  hup!  "  —  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  — 
"  Blink!  Why,  what  to  the  devil  do  you  mean  —  broken 
in  there?    What  are  we,  —  hup,  blink!  —  doing  here?  " 

"  Why,  we  had  a  bet,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  looking  over 
his  prizes  and  clearly  much  pleased  with  himself.  "  I 
bet  you  as  we  came  down  the  road  that  I'd  break  in  here 
before  you  would.  I  took  the  front  and  you  went  to 
the  back,  but  you've  been  asleep." 

"  Asleep!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  I've  been  drunk. 
I  was  drunk."    He  got  on  his  knees  from  where  he  sat 


BODY  WORK  151 

and  with  a  furious  action  fumbled  in  his  coat-tails. 
From  them  his  bottle  of  whisky,  and  Mr.  Puddlebox 
furiously  wrenched  the  cork  and  hurled  the  bottle  from 
him.  "  To  hell  with  it!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  as  it  lay 
gurgling.  "  Hell  take  it.  I'll  not  touch  it  again.  Why, 
loony  —  why,  you  staring,  hup!  hell!  mad  loony,  if 
you'd  been  caught  you'd  have  gone  to  convict  prison, 
boy.  And  my  fault  for  this  cursed  drink.  Give  me  those 
things.  Give  them  to  me  and  get  out  of  here  —  get 
up  the  road." 

"  Let  'em  alone!  "  said  Mr.  Wriford  menacingly. 
"  What  d'you  want  with  'em?  " 

Mr.  Puddlebox  played  the  game  learnt  of  experience. 
He  concealed  his  agitation.  He  said  with  his  jolly  smile : 
"  Why,  mean  that  I  will  not  be  beat  at  anything  by  you 
or  by  any  man.  I  will  challenge  you  or  any  man  at  any 
game  and  will  be  beat  by  none.  You've  been  in  and  got 
'em,  boy;  now,  curse  me,  I  will  equal  you  and  beat  you 
for  that  I  will  go  in  and  put  them  back.  Play  fair, 
boy.     Hand  over." 

"  Well,  there  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  disarmed 
and  much  tickled. 

"  Out  you  go  then,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  gather- 
ing up  the  trinkets.  "  Out  into  the  road.  You  had 
none  of  me  to  interfere  with  you,  and  I  must  have  none 
of  you  while  I  go  my  own  way  to  this." 

Mr.  Puddlebox  took  Mr.  Wriford  to  the  gate  of  the 
grounds,  then  went  back  again  in  much  trembling.  An 
open  window  informed  him  of  Mr.  Wriford 's  place  of 
entry.  He  leant  through  to  a  sofa  that  stood  handy, 
there  deposited  the  trinkets,  and  very  softly  shut  the 
window  down.  When  he  rejoined  Mr.  Wriford,  fear's 
perspiration  was  streaming  from  him.     "  I've  had  a 


152  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

squeak  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  with  simulated  cheeri- 
ness.    "  Let's  out  of  this,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

He  walked  Mr.  Wriford  long,  quickly  and  far.  While 
he  walked  he  fought  again  the  battle  that  had  been 
swift  victory  when  he  cast  his  bottle  from  him;  and  in 
future  days  fought  it  again  and  met  new  tortures  in  each 
fight. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  get  any  whisky?  "  asked  Mr. 
Wriford  when  on  a  day,  pockets  lined  with  harvest 
money,  he  noticed  Mr.  Puddlebox's  abstinence. 

"Whisky!  Hell  take  such  stinking  stuff,"  cried  Mr. 
Puddlebox  and  sucked  in  his  cheeks  —  and  groaned ; 
then  put  a  hand  in  his  tail-pocket  and  felt  a  hard 
lump  rolled  in  a  cloth  that  lay  where  the  whisky 
used  to  lie  and  said  to  himself:  "Two  bottles  —  two 
bottles." 

It  was  Mr.  Puddlebox's  promise  to  himself,  and  his 
lustiest  weapon  in  his  battles  with  his  desire,  that,  on 
some  day  that  must  come  somehow,  the  day  when  he 
should  be  reheved  of  his  charge  of  Mr.  Wriford,  he 
would  buy  himself  two  bottles  of  whisky  and  sit  himself 
down  and  drink  them.  Into  the  hard  lump  rolled  in 
the  cloth,  and  composing  it,  there  went  daily  when  his 
earnings  permitted  it  two  coppers.  When  that  sum 
reached  eighty-four  —  two  at  three-and-six  apiece  — 
his  two  bottles  would  be  ready  for  the  mere  asking. 

Wherefore  "  Two  bottles !  Two  bottles !  "  Mr.  Puddle- 
box would  assure  himself  when  most  fiercely  his  cravings 
assailed  him,  and  against  the  pangs  of  his  denial  would 
combine  luxurious  thoughts  of  when  they  should  thus 
be  slaked  and  fears  of  what  might  happen  to  his  loony 
if  he  now  gave  way  to  them. 

Much  those  fears  —  or  the  affection  whence  they  rose 


BODY  WORK  153 

—  cost  him  in  these  later  days:  swiftly  their  end  ap- 
proached. Much  and  more  as  summer  passed  and 
autumn  came  sombrely  and  chill:  swiftly  their  end  as 
sombre  day  succeeded  sombre  day,  and  they  passed 
down  into  Cornwall  and  went  along  the  sombre  sea. 
Village  to  village,  through  nature  in  decay  that  grey 
sky  shrouded,  grey  sea  dirged:  Mr.  Puddlebox  ever  for 
tarrying  when  larger  town  was  reached,  Mr.  Wriford 
ever  for  onward  —  onward,  on. 


CHAPTER  II 

CROSS   WORK 

Ever  for  onward,  Mr.  Wriford  —  onward,  onward, 
on! 

Where,  in  the  bright  days,  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  taken 
the  lead  and  suggested  their  road  and  programme,  now, 
in  the  sombre  days,  chill  in  the  air,  and  in  the  wind  a 
bluster,  Mr.  Wriford  led.  He  chose  the  roughest  paths. 
He  most  preferred  the  cliff  tracks  where  wind  and  rain 
drove  strongest,  or  down  upon  the  shingle  where  walking 
was  mostly  climbing  the  great  boulders  that  ran  from 
cliff  to  sea.  He  walked  with  head  up  as  though  to  show 
the  weather  how  he  scorned  it.  He  walked  very  fast 
as  though  there  was  something  he  pursued. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  did  not  like  it  at  all.  Much  of  Mr. 
Puddlebox's  jolly  humour  was  shaken  out  of  him  in  these 
rough  and  arduous  scrambles,  and  he  grumbled  loud  and 
frequent.  But  very  fond  of  his  loony,  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
and  increasingly  anxious  for  him  in  this  fiercer  mood  of 
his. 

There  are  limits,  though:  and  these  came  on  an  after- 
noon wild  and  wet  when  Mr.  Wriford  exchanged  the 
cliff  road  for  the  shore  and  pressed  his  way  at  his  relent- 
less pace  along  a  desolate  stretch  cut  into  frequent  inlets 
by  rocky  barriers  that  must  be  toilsomely  climbed,  a 
dun  sea  roaring  at  them. 

"  Why,  what  to  the  devil  is  it  you're  chasing,  boy?  " 

154 


CROSS  WORK  155 

Mr.  Puddlebox's  grumblings  at  last  broke  out,  when  yet 
another  barrier  surmounted  revealed  another  and  a 
steeper  little  beyond.  "  Here's  a  warm  town  we've 
left,"  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox,  sinking  upon  a  great  stone, 
"  and  here's  as  wet,  cold,  and  infernal  a  climbing  as  I 
challenge  you  or  any  man  ever  to  have  seen.  Here's 
you  been  dragging  and  trailing  and  ripe  for  anything 
these  three  months  and  more,  and  now  rushing  and 
stopping  for  nothing  so  I  challenge  the  devil  himself  to 
keep  up  with  you." 

"Well,  don't  keep  up!"  said  Mr.  Wriford  fiercely. 
"  Who  wants  you  to?  " 

Mr.  Puddlebox  blinked  at  that;  but  he  answered 
stoutly:  "  Well,  curse  me  if  I  do,  for  one." 

"  Nor  me  for  another,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  and  turned 
where  he  stood  and  pressed  on  across  the  shingle  towards 
the  next  rocky  arm. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  sucked  in  his  cheeks,  felt  at  the  hard 
lump  in  his  pocket,  then  followed  at  a  little  run,  and 
caught  Mr,  Wriford  as  Mr.  Wriford  chmbed  the  further 
barrier  of  rocks. 

"  Hey,  give  us  a  hand,  boy,"  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox 
cheerfully.    "  This  is  a  steep  one." 

Mr.  Wriford  looked  down.  "  What,  are  you  coming 
on?    I  thought  you'd  stopped." 

"  You're  unkind,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox. 

Mr.  Wriford,  looking  down,  this  time  saw  the  blink 
that  went  with  the  words.  He  jumped  back  lower, 
coming  with  reckless  bounds.  "  I'm  sorry,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  sorry.  Look  here,  coming  across  this  bit  "  —  he 
pointed  back  to  their  earlier  stopping-place  —  "I  felt 
—  I  felt  rotten  to  think  you'd  gone." 

"Why,   that's    my  loony!"    cried    Mr.   Puddlebox, 


156  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

highly  pleased.  "  Come  down  here,  boy.  Let's  talk  of 
this  business." 

"  But  I  wouldn't  look  back,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  "  or 
come  back.    I've  done  with  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Why,  so  you  have,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  rightly 
guessing  to  what  Mr.  Wriford  referred.  "  You  can  come 
down  now,  though,  for  I'm  asking  you  to,  so  there's  no 
weakness  in  that.    There's  shelter  here." 

"  I  don't  want  shelter,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  and  went 
a  step  higher  and  stood  with  head  and  back  erect  where 
gale  and  rain  caught  him  more  full. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  summoned  much  impressiveness  into 
his  voice.  "  Boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  this  is  a  fool's 
game,  and  I  never  saw  such  even  with  you.  Bring 
sense  to  it,  boy.  Tramping  is  well  enough  for  fine  days : 
winters  for  towns.  There's  money  to  be  found  in  towns, 
boy;  and  if  no  money,  workhouse  is  none  so  bad,  and 
when  we've  tried  it  you've  hked  it  and  called  it  some- 
thing new,  which  is  what  you  want.  Well,  there's  noth- 
ing new  this  way,  boy.  There's  no  work  and  there's  no 
bed  in  the  fields  winter-time.  Nothing  new  this  way, 
boy." 

A  fiercer  drive  of  wind  spun  Mr.  Wriford  where  he 
stood  exposed.  He  caught  at  a  rock  with  his  hands  and 
laughed  grimly,  then  stood  erect  again,  and  pressed 
himself  against  the  rising  gale. 

"  Ah,  isn't  there,  though?  "  he  cried.  "  Man,  there's 
cold  and  rain  and  wind,  and  there's  tramping  on 
and  on  against  it  and  feeling  you  don't  care  a  damn 
for  it." 

"  Well,  curse  me,  but  I  do,"  returned  Mr.  Puddlebox. 
"  It's  just  what  I  do  mind,  and  there's  no  sense  to  it, 
boy.    There's  no  sense  to  it." 


CROSS  WORK  157 

"  There  is  for  me,"  Mr.  Wriford  cried.  "  It's  what  I 
want!  "  He  turned  from  fronting  the  gale.  Mr.  Puddle- 
box  saw  him  measuring  with  his  eye  the  height  where 
he  stood  from  the  ground,  and  called  in  swift  alarm: 
"  Don't  jump!    You'll  break  your  legs.    Don't —  " 

Mr.  Wriford  laughed  aloud,  jumped  and  came  crash- 
ing to  his  hands  and  knees,  got  up  and  laughed  again. 
"  That's  all  right!  "  said  he. 

"  Boy,  that's  all  wrong,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  very 
seriously.  "  That's  all  of  a  part  with  your  rushing  along 
as  if  it  was  the  devil  himself  you  chased;  and  what  to 
the  devil  else  it  can  be  I  challenge  you  to  say  or  any 
man," 

Mr.  Wriford  took  up  the  words  he  had  cried  down 
from  the  top  of  the  barrier.  "  It's  what  I  want,"  he 
told  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  Cold  and  not  minding  it,  and 
fighting  against  the  wind  and  not  minding  it,  and  get- 
ting wet  and  going  on  full  speed  however  rough  the  road 
and  not  minding  that.  Cold  and  wind  and  rain  and 
sticking  to  it  and  fighting  it  and  beating  it  and  liking 
it  —  ah!  "  and  he  threw  up  his  arms,  extending  them, 
and  filled  his  chest  with  a  great  breath,  as  though  he 
embraced  and  drunk  deep  of  the  elements  that  he  stuck 
to  and  fought  and  beat. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  looked  at  him  closely.  "  Sure  you're 
liking  it?  "  he  asked,  his  tone  the  same  as  when  he  often 
inquired:    "  Sure  you're  happy,  boy?  " 

''  Sure!  Why,  of  course  I'm  sure.  Why,  all  the  time 
I'm  thrashing  along,  do  you  know  what  I'm  saying? 
I'm  saying:  '  Beating  you!  Beating  you!  Beating  you! ' 
and  at  night  I  lie  awake  and  think  of  it  all  waiting 
outside  for  me  and  how  I  shall  beat  it,  beat  it,  beat  it 
again  when  morning  comes." 


158  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  I've  something 
to  say  to  you." 

"  No,  I'll  stand,"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  Aren't  you  tired?  " 

"  I'm  fit  to  drop,"  said  Mr.  Wriford;  and  then  with 
a  hard  face:  "  But  sitting  down  is  giving  way  to  it. 
I'll  not  do  that.    No,  by  God,  I'll  beat  it  all  the  time." 

Then  Mr.  Puddlebox  broke  out  in  exasperation  and 
struck  his  stick  upon  the  shingle  to  mark  it.  "  Why, 
curse  me  if  I  ever  heard  such  a  thing  or  knew  such  a 
thing!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  Beating  it!  I've  told 
you  a  score  time,  and  this  time  I  give  it  to  you  hot,  that 
when  you  go  so,  you're  spooked,  spooked  to  hell  and 
never  will  be  unspooked!  '  Beating  it,  beating  it,  beat- 
ing it! '  you  cry  as  you  rush  along!  Why,  it's  then  that 
it  is  beating  you  all  the  time,  for  it  is  of  yourself  that 
you  are  thinking.  And  that's  what's  wrong  with  you, 
thinking  of  yourself,  and  has  always  been.  And  there's 
no  being  happy  that  way  and  never  will  be.  Think  of 
some  one  else,  boy.  For  God  Almighty's  sake  think 
of  some  one  else  or  you're  beat  and  mad  for  sure!  " 

Mr.  Wriford  gave  him  back  his  fierceness.  "  Think 
of  some  one  else!  That's  what  I've  done  all  my  Ufe. 
That's  what  locked  me  up  and  did  for  me.  I've  done 
with  all  that  now,  and  I'm  happy.  Think  of  some  one 
else!  God!"  cried  he  and  snapped  his  fingers.  "I 
don't  care  that  for  anybody.  Whom  should  I  think 
of?" 

"  Well,  try  a  thought  for  me,"  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
relenting  nothing  of  his  own  heat.  "  I've  watched  you 
these  four  months.  I've  got  you  out  of  trouble.  Curse 
me,  I've  fed  you  and  handled  you  like  a  baby.  But  for 
me  you'd  Hke  be  l>ing  dead  somewhere." 


CROSS  WORK  159 

"  Well,  who  cares?  "  cried  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Not  me, 
I  don't." 

"  Ah,  and  you'd  liker  still  be  clapped  in  an  asylum 
and  locked  there  all  your  days;  you'd  mind  that.  But 
for  me  that's  where  you'd  be  and  where  you'll  go,  if  I 
left  you  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Wriford  cried  with  a  black  and  angry  face: 
"  Well,  if  it's  true,  who  asked  you  to  hang  on  to  me? 
Why  have  you  done  it?  If  it's  true,  mind  you!  For 
I've  done  my  share.  You've  admitted  that  yourself. 
In  the  rows  we've  got  into  I've  done  my  share,  and  in 
the  work  we've  done  I've  done  more  than  my  share, 
once  I've  learnt  the  hang  of  it.  Now  then!  That's 
true,  isn't  it?  If  you've  done  so  jolly  much,  why  have 
you?    There's  one  for  you.    Why?  " 

His  violent  storming  put  a  new  mood  to  Mr.  Puddle- 
box's  face.  Not  the  exasperation  with  which  he  had 
burst  out  and  continued  till  now.  That  left  him.  Not 
the  jolly  grin  with  which  commonly  he  regarded  life  in 
general  and  Mr.  Wriford  in  particular.  None  of  these. 
A  new  mood.  The  mood  and  hue  Mr.  Wriford  had 
glimpsed  when,  looking  down  from  the  barrier  as  Mr. 
Puddlebox  overtook  him,  and  cr>ing  down  to  him:  "  I 
thought  you'd  stopped,"  he  had  seen  Mr.  Puddlebox 
blink  and  heard  him  say:  "  You're  unkind,  boy."  Now 
he  saw  it  again  —  and  was  again  to  see  it  before 
approaching  night  gave  way  to  following  morn. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  blinked  and  went  redly  cloudy  in  the 
face.  "  Why?  "  said  he.  "  Well,  I'll  tell  you  why,  boy. 
Because  I  like  you.  I  liked  you,  boy,  when  you  came 
wretched  up  the  Barnet  road  and  thought  there  was 
one  with  you,  following  you.  I  liked  you  then  for  you 
were  glad  of  my  food  and  my  help  and  caught  at  my 


i6o  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

hand  as  night  fell  and  held  it  while  you  slept.  Curse 
me,  I  liked  you  then,  for,  curse  me,  you  were  the  first 
come  my  way  in  many  years  of  sin  that  thought  me 
stronger  than  himself  and  that  I  could  be  stronger  to 
and  could  help.  I  liked  you  then,  boy,  and  I've  liked 
you  more  each  sun  and  moon  since.  I've  lost  a  precious 
lot  in  life  through  being  what,  curse  me,  I  am.  None  ever 
to  welcome  me,  none  ever  to  be  glad  of  me,  none  ever 
that  minded  if  I  rode  by  on  my  legs  or  went  legs  first  in 
a  coffin  cart.  Then  came  you  that  w^as  loony,  that  was 
glad  of  me  here  and  glad  of  me  there,  that  asked  me  this 
and  asked  me  that,  that  laughed  with  me  and  ate  with 
me  and  slept  with  me,  that  because  you  was  loony  was 
weaker  than  me.  So  I  liked  you,  boy;  curse  me,  I 
loved  you,  boy.    There's  why  for  you." 

This  long  speech,  delivered  with  much  blinking  and 
redness  of  the  face,  was  listened  to  by  ]\Ir.  Wriford  with 
the  fierceness  gone  out  of  his  eyes  but  with  his  face 
twisting  and  working  as  though  what  he  heard  put  him 
in  difficulty.  In  difficulty  and  with  difficulty  he  then 
broke  out.  "  God  knows  I'm  grateful,"  Mr.  Wriford 
said,  his  voice  strained  as  his  face.  "  But  look  at  this 
—  I  don't  want  to  be  grateful.  I  don't  want  that  kind 
of  thing.  I've  been  through  all  that.  '  Thank  you  ' 
for  this;  and  *  Thank  you  '  for  that;  and  '  I  beg  your 
pardon; '  and  *  Oh,  how  kind  of  you.'  Man,  man!  "  cried 
Mr.  Wriford,  striking  his  hands  to  his  face  and  tearing 
them  away  again  as  though  scenes  were  before  his  eyes 
that  he  would  wrench  away.  "  Man,  I've  done  that 
thirty  years  and  been  killed  of  it.  I  don't  want  ever  to 
think  that  kind  of  stuff  again.  I  want  just  to  keep 
going  on  and  having  nothing  touch  me  except  what 
hurts  me  here  in  my  body  and  not  care  a  damn  for  it  — 


CROSS  WORK  iGi 

which  I  don't.  You're  always  asking  me  if  I'm  happy, 
and  I  know  you  think  I'm  not.  But  I  am.  Look  how 
hard  my  hands  are :  that  makes  me  happy  just  to  think 
of  that.  And  how  I  don't  mind  getting  wet  or  cold: 
that  makes  me  happy,  so  happy  that  I  shout  out  with 
the  gladness  of  it  and  get  myself  wetter.  It's  being  a 
man.  It's  getting  the  better  of  myself.  You're  going 
to  say  it's  not.  But  you  don't  understand.  One  man 
has  to  get  the  better  of  himself  one  way  and  one  another. 
With  me  it's  getting  the  better  of  being  afraid  of  things. 
Well,  I'm  beating  it.  I'm  beating  it  when  I'm  out  here, 
tramping  along.  But  when  I'm  sheltering  it's  beating 
me.  When  you  tell  me  —  "  He  stopped,  and  stooping 
to  Mr.  Puddlebox  took  his  hands  and  squeezed  them  so 
that  the  water  was  squeezed  to  Mr.  Puddlebox's  eyes. 
"There!"  cried  Mr.  Wriford.  "Grateful!  I'm  more 
grateful  to  you.  I'm  fonder  of  you  than  any  man  I've 
ever  met.  But  don't  tell  me  you're  fond  of  me. 
I  don't  want  that  from  anybody.  When  you  tell 
me  that  it  puts  me  back  to  what  I  used  to  be. 
I'm  grateful.  Believe  that;  but  don't  make  me  talk 
about  it." 

"  I  never  did  want  you  to,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox. 
"  Look  here,  boy.  Look  how  we  begun  on  this  talk. 
I  told  you  to  think  of  some  one  else,  care  for  some  one 
else,  and  you  broke  out  '  whom  were  you  to  care  for?  ' 
and  I  gave  you,  being  cold  and  wet  and  mortal  tired,  I 
gave  you  '  For  God  Almighty's  sake  care  for  me  '  and 
then  told  you  why  you  should.  Well,  let's  get  back  to 
that.  Care  for  me.  Look  here,  boy.  We  were  ten 
mile  to  the  next  village  along  this  devil  of  a  place  when 
we  left  the  town.  I  reckon  we've  come  four,  and  here's 
evening  upon  us  and  six  to  go.    Well,  I  can't  go  them, 


i62  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

and  that's  the  end  and  the  beginning  of  it.  I'm  for 
going  back  where  there's  a  bed  to  be  had  and  while  yet 
it  is  to  be  had,  for  they  sleep  early  these  parts.  Where- 
fore when  I  say  '  for  God  Almighty's  sake  care  for  me/ 
I  mean  stop  this  chasing  this  way  and  let's  chase  back 
the  way  we  come.  We'll  forget  what's  gone  between 
us,"  concluded  Mr.  Puddlebox,  reverting  to  his  jolly 
smiles  and  getting  to  his  feet,  "  and  I'll  hate  you  and 
you'll  hate  me,  since  that  pleases  you  most,  and  back 
we'll  get  and  have  a  dish  of  potatoes  inside  of  us  and  a 
warm  bed  outside.    Wherefore  I  say: 

"  0  ye  food  and  warmth,  bless  ye  the  Lord:  praise 
Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever." 

Mr.  Wriford  laughed,  and  Mr.  Puddlebox  guessed 
him  persuaded  once  again.  But  he  set  his  face  then 
and  shook  his  head  sharply,  and  Mr.  Puddlebox  saw 
him  determined.  "  No,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  No,  I'm 
not  going  back.  I'm  never  going  back.  If  you  want 
to  know  what  I'm  going  to  do,  I'm  going  to  stay  the 
night  out  here." 

Mr.  Puddlebox  cried:  "  Out  here!  Now  what  to  the 
devil  —  " 

"  I'd  settled  it,"  Mr.  Wriford  interrupted  him.  "  I'd 
settled  it  when  I  thought  you'd  gone  back.  There're 
little  caves  all  along  here  —  I  saw  one  the  other  side  of 
these  rocks.  I'm  going  to  sleep  in  one.  I'd  made  up 
my  mind  when  you  caught  up  with  me.  I'm  going 
to  do  it." 

Mr.  Puddlebox  stared  at  him,  incapable  of  speech. 
Then  cried:  "  Wet  as  you  are?  " 

"  Wet  as  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  and  laughed. 

"  Cold  as  it  is  and  going  to  be  colder?  " 

"  Cold  as  it  is  and  the  colder  the  better." 


CROSS  WORK  163 

"  You'll  stay  alone,"  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  Curse 
me  if  I'll  stay  with  you." 

"  You  needn't,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  I'm  not  asking 
you  to." 

"  But  you  think  I'm  going  to,"  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox. 
"  And  you're  wrong,  for  I'm  not.  I'm  going  straight 
back,  and  I'm  going  at  once,  the  quicker  to  fetch  you 
to  your  senses.  I'm  going,  boy;  "  and  in  advertisement 
of  his  intention  Mr.  Puddlebox  began  resolutely  to  move 
away. 

Mr.  Wriford  as  resolutely  turned  to  the  barrier  of 
rocks  and  began  to  climb. 

"  Come  on,  boy,"  called  Mr.  Puddlebox. 

Mr.  Wriford  called  back:  "  No.  No,  I'm  going  to 
stay.     I'm  going  to  see  the  night  through." 

"  You'll  know  where  to  find  me,"  cried  Mr.  Puddle- 
box.   "  I'll  be  where  we  lay  last  night." 

Mr.  Wriford's  laugh  came  to  him  through  the  gather- 
ing gloom,  and  through  the  gloom  he  saw  Mr.  Wriford's 
form  midway  up  the  rocks.  "  And  you'll  know  where 
to  find  me,"  Mr.  Wriford  called. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  paused  irresolutely  and  cursed  roundly 
where  he  paused.  Then  turned  and  stamped  away 
across  the  shingle.  When  he  reached  the  rocky  arm 
where  first  they  had  quarrelled  he  stopped  again  and 
again  looked  back.    Mr.  Wriford  was  not  to  be  seen. 

"  That'll  go  near  to  kiU  him  if  he  stays,"  said  Mr. 
Puddlebox.  "  And,  curse  me,  if  I  go  back  to  him  he 
will  stay.  I'll  push  on,  and  he'll  follow  me.  That's  the 
only  way  to  it." 

They  had  spent  the  previous  night  in  an  eating-house 
where  "  Beds  for  Single  Men  —  46."  attracted  wan- 
derers.    It  was  seven   o'clock  when  Mr.  Puddlebox's 


1 64  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

slow  progression  —  halting  at  every  few  yards  and 
looking  back  —  at  length  returned  him  to  it.  He  dried 
and  warmed  himself  before  the  fire  in  the  kitchen  that 
was  free  to  inmates  of  the  house. 

"  Where's  your  mate?  "  asked  the  proprietor. 
"  Thought  you  was  making  Port  Rannock?  " 

"  Too  far,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox;  and  to  the  earlier 
question:  "  He's  behind  me.  I'll  wait  my  supper  till 
he  comes." 

He  waited,  though  very  hungry.  Every  time  the  door 
of  the  kitchen  opened  he  turned  eagerly  in  expectation 
that  was  every  time  denied.  Towards  nine  he  gave  up 
the  comfortable  seat  he  had  secured  before  the  blaze 
and  sat  himself  where  he  could  watch  the  door.  It 
never  admitted  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  What's  the  night?  "  he  asked  a  seafaring  new- 
comer. 

"  Blowing  up,"  the  man  told  him.  "  Blowing  up 
dirty." 

Mr.  Puddlebox  went  from  the  room  and  from  the 
house,  shivered  as  the  night  air  struck  him,  and  then 
down  the  cobbled  street.  Ten  o'clock,  borne  gustily 
upon  the  wind,  came  to  him  from  the  church  tower  as 
he  turned  along  the  shore. 

None  saw  him  go:  and  he  was  not  to  return. 


CHAPTER   III 

WATER  THAT   TAKES   YOUR   BREATH 

Mr.  Puddlebox's  landsman's  eye  showed  him  no 
signs  of  that  "  blowing  up  dirty  "  of  which  he  had  been 
informed.  A  fresh  breeze  faced  him  as  he  walked  and 
somewhat  hindered  his  progress;  but  a  strong  moon 
rode  high  and  lighted  him;  the  sea,  much  advanced 
since  he  came  that  way,  broke  quietly  along  the  shore. 
"  Why,  it's  none  so  bad  a  night  to  be  out,"  thought  Mr. 
Puddlebox;  and  there  began  to  change  within  him  the 
mood  in  which  he  had  left  the  lodging-house.  Seated 
there  he  had  imagined  a  rough  night,  wet  and  dark, 
and  mth  each  passing  hour  had  the  more  reproached 
himself  for  his  desertion  of  his  loony.  Now  that  he  found 
night  clear  and  still,  well-lit  and  nothing  overcold,  he 
inclined  towards  considering  himself  a  fool  for  his 
pains. 

An  hour  on  his  road  brought  change  of  mood  again. 
The  very  stillness,  the  very  clearness  that  first  had  re- 
assured him,  now  began  to  frighten  him.  He  began  to 
apprehend  as  it  were  a  something  sinister  in  the  quie- 
tude. He  began  to  disHke  the  persistent  regularity  of 
his  footsteps  grinding  in  the  deep  shingle  and  to  dislike 
yet  more  the  persistent  regularity  of  the  breaking  waves. 
They  rose  about  knee-high  as  he  watched  them,  fell 
and  pressed  whitely  up  the  beach,  back  slowly,  as 
though  reluctant  and  with  deep  protest  of  the  stones, 

165 


1 66  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

then  massed  knee-high  and  down  and  up  again.  Darkly 
on  his  right  hand  the  steep  chffs  towered. 

The  monotony  of  sound  oppressed  him.  He  began 
to  have  an  eerie  feeHng  as  though  he  were  being  fol- 
lowed, and  once  or  twice  he  looked  back.  No,  very 
much  alone.  Then  his  footsteps,  whose  persistent  regu- 
larity had  wrought  upon  his  senses,  began  to  trouble 
him  with  their  noisiness  upon  the  shingle.  He  tried  to 
walk  less  heavily  and  presently  found  himself  picking 
his  way,  and  that  added  to  the  eeriness,  starthng  him 
when  the  loose  stones  yielded  and  he  stumbled. 

He  approached  that  quarter  where  the  shore  began 
to  be  divided  by  the  rocky  barriers  that  ran  from  cliff 
to  sea.  Then  he  apprehended  what,  as  he  expressed  it 
to  himself,  was  the  matter  with  the  sea.  It  was  very 
full.  It  looked  very  deep.  What  had  seemed  to  him  to 
be  waves  rolling  up  now  appeared  to  him  as  a  kind  of 
overflowing,  as  though  not  spurned-out  waves,  but  the 
whole  volume  of  the  water  welled,  swelled,  to  find  more 
room.  The  breaking  sound  was  now  scarcely  to  be 
heard,  and  that  intensified  the  stillness,  and  that  fright- 
ened him  more.    He  began  to  run.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Puddlebox  stopped  running  for  want  of  breath; 
but  that  physical  admission  of  the  mounting  panic 
within  him  left  him  very  frightened  indeed.  He  went 
close  to  the  chffs.  Darker  there  and  very  shut-up  the 
way  they  towered  so  straight  and  so  high.  He  came 
away  from  them,  his  senses  worse  wrought  upon.  Then 
he  came  to  the  first  of  the  rocky  barriers  that  ran  like 
piers  from  the  chff  to  the  sea,  and  then  for  the  first  time 
noticed  how  high  the  tide  had  risen.  When  he  came 
here  with  Mr.  Wriford  they  had  done  their  climbing 
far  from  the  cliff's  base.    Now  the  barrier  was  in  great 


WATER  THAT  TAKES  YOUR  BREATH  167 

part  submerged.  He  must  climb  it  near  to  the  cliff 
where  climbing  was  steeper  and  more  difficult.  Well, 
there  was  sand  between  these  barriers,  that  was  one 
good  thing.  Walking  would  be  easier  and  none  of  that 
cursed  noise  that  his  feet  made  on  the  shingle.  With 
much  difficulty  he  got  up  and  looked  down  upon  the 
other    side.  .  .  . 

There  wasn't  any  sand.  Water  where  sand  had  been 
—  water  that  with  that  welling,  swelHng  motion  pressed 
about  the  shingle  that  banked  beneath  the  cliff. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  said  aloud,  in  a  whisper:  "  The  tide!  " 
It  was  the  first  time  since  he  had  started  out  that  he 
had  thought  of  it.  He  looked  along  the  cHff.  From 
where  he  stood,  from  where  these  rocky  piers  began,  the 
cliff,  as  he  saw,  began  to  stand  outwards  in  a  long  bluff. 
The  further  one  went,  the  further  the  tide  would.  .  .  . 
He  carried  his  eyes  a  Httle  to  sea.  Beneath  the  moon 
were  white,  uneasy  lines.  That  was  where  the  sea 
swirled  upon  the  barriers.  He  looked  downwards  and 
saw  the  placid  water  welling,  swelling  beneath  his 
feet. 

"  The  tide,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  again,  again  in  a 
whisper.  He  swallowed  something  that  rose  in  his 
throat.  He  ran  his  tongue  around  his  lips,  for  they  were 
dry.  He  shivered,  for  the  perspiration  his  long  walk 
had  induced  now  seemed  to  be  running  down  his  body 
in  very  cold  drops.  He  looked  straight  above  him  and 
at  once  down  to  his  feet  again  and  moved  his  feet  in 
steadying  of  his  balance:  a  sense  of  giddiness  came 
from  looking  up  that  towering  height  that  towered  so 
steeply  as  to  appear  hanging  over  him.  He  looked 
along  the  way  he  had  come ;  and  he  stood  so  close  to  the 
cHff-face,  and  it  bulked  so  enormously  before  him,  that 


i68  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

the  bay  he  had  traversed  seemed,  by  contrast,  to  sweep 
back  iminensely  far  —  immensely  safe. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  watched  that  safety  with  unmoving 
eyes  as  though  he  were  fascinated  by  it.  The  longer 
he  watched  the  more  it  seemed  to  draw  him..  He  kept 
his  eyes  upon  one  distant  spot,  half  way  along  the  bay 
and  high  up  the  shore,  and  his  hypnotic  state  pre- 
sented him  to  himself  sitting  there  —  safe.  Still  with  his 
eyes  upon  it  he  moved  across  the  narrow  pier  in  its 
direction  and  sat  down,  legs  dangling  towards  the  bay, 
in  the  first  action  of  descending.  He  twisted  about  to 
pursue  the  action,  for  he  was  a  timid  and  unhandy 
cUmber  who  would  climb  downwards  facing  his  hold. 
As  he  came  to  his  hands  and  knees  he  went  forward  on 
them  and  looked  across  the  fifty  yards  of  shingle-bank, 
the  sea  close  up,  that  separated  him  from  the  next  pier 
of  rocks.  He  was  a  creature  of  fear  as  he  knelt  there  — 
a  very  figure  of  very  ugly  fear,  ungainly  in  his  form  that 
hung  bulkily  between  his  arms  and  legs,  white  and 
loosely  fat  in  his  face  that  peered  timorously  over  the 
edge,  cowardly  and  useless  in  his  crouching,  shrinking 
pose. 

He  said  aloud,  his  eyes  on  the  distant  barrier:  "  I'm 
as  safe  there  —  for  a  peep  —  as  I  am  here.  I  can  get 
back.    Even  if  I  get  wxt  I  can  get  back." 

He  shuffled  forward  and  this  time  put  his  legs  over  the 
other  side  and  sat  a  while.  Here  the  drop  was  not  more 
than  three  feet  beneath  the  soles  of  his  boots  as  they 
dangled.  He  drew  them  up.  "  If  he's  safe,  he's  safe," 
said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  And  if  he's  drowned,  he's 
drowned.    Where's  the  sense  of  —  " 

Something  that  floated  in  the  water  caught  his  eye. 
A  little,  round,  greyish  clump.    About  the  size  of  a  face. 


WATER  THAT  TAKES  YOUR  BREATH  169 

Floating  close  to  the  shore.  Not  a  face.  A  clump  of 
fishing-net  corks  that  Mr.  Puddlebox  remembered  to 
have  seen  dry  upon  the  sand  when  first  he  arrived  here. 
But  very  like,  very  dreadfully  like  a  face,  and  the  water 
rippling  very  dreadfully  over  it  at  each  pulsing  of  the 
tide.  Floated  his  loony's  face  somewhere  like  that? 
Struggled  he  somewhere  near  to  shore  as  that?  The 
ripples  awash  upon  his  mouth?  His  eyes  staring? 
Mouth  that  had  laughed  with  Mr.  Puddlebox  these 
several  months?  Eyes  that  often  in  appeal  had  sought 
his  own,  and  that  he  loved  to  light  from  fear  to  peace, 
to  trust,  to  confidence,  to  merriment?  Floated  he 
somewhere?  Struggled  he  somewhere?  Waited  he 
somewhere  for  these  hands  which,  when  he  sometimes 
caught,  proved  them  at  last  of  use  to  some  one,  stronger 
than  some  one  else's  in  many  years  of  sin? 

Mr.  Puddlebox  slid  to  the  shingle  and  ran  along  it; 
came  to  the  further  barrier  and  got  upon  it;  stood  there 
in  fear.  Beyond,  and  to  the  next  pier,  there  was  no 
more,  between  sea  and  cliff,  than  room  to  walk. 

His  lips  had  been  very  dry  when,  a  short  space  before, 
looking  towards  where  now  he  stood,  he  had  run  his 
tongue  around  them.  They  were  moist  then  to  what, 
licking  them  again,  his  tongue  now  felt.  Cold  the 
sweat  then  that  trickled  down  his  body :  warm  to  what 
icy  stream  fear  now  exuded  on  his  flesh.  He  had  shiv- 
ered then:  now  he  not  shivered  but  in  all  his  frame 
shook  so  that  his  knees  scarcely  could  support  him. 
Then  it  was  merely  safety  that  he  desired:  now  he 
realised  fear.  Then  only  safety  occupied  his  mind :  now 
cowardice  within  him,  and  he  knew  it.  Love,  strangely, 
strongly  conceived  in  these  months,  called  him  on: 
fear,  like  a  live  thing  on  the  rock  before  him,  held  him, 


I70  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

pressed  him  back.  He  thought  of  rippling  water  awash 
upon  that  mouth,  and  looked  along  the  narrow  path 
before  him,  and  Hcked  his  arid  lips  again:  he  saw  him- 
self with  that  deep  water,  that  icy  water,  that  thick 
water,  welling,  swelling,  to  his  knees,  to  his  waist,  to  his 
neck,  sucking  him  adrift  —  ah!  and  he  looked  back 
whence  he  had  come  and  ran  his  tongue  again  about  his 
ugly,  hanging  mouth. 

"  I'm  a  coward,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  aloud.  "  I 
can't  come  to  you,  boy,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  to  go  back, 
boy,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  stand  the  water,  boy.  I've 
always  been  terrified  of  deep  water,  boy.  I'd  come  to 
you  through  fire,  boy;  by  God,  I  would.  Not  through 
water.  I'm  a  coward.  I  can't  help  it,  boy.  Water 
takes  your  breath.    I  can't  do  it,  boy." 

He  waited  as  if  he  thought  an  answer  would  come. 
There  was  only  an  intense  stillness.  There  was  only  the 
very  tiniest  lapping  of  the  water  as  it  welled  and  swelled  : 
sometimes  there  was  the  faint  rattle  of  a  stone  that  the 
sucking  water  sucked  from  the  little  ridge  of  pebbles 
against  the  cliff. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  looked  down  upon  the  water  and 
spoke  to  it.  The  words  he  spoke  might  have  been  em- 
ployed fiercely,  but  he  spoke  them  scarcely  above  a 
whisper  as  though  it  were  a  confidence  that  he  invited 
of  the  sea.  "  Why  don't  you  break  and  roar?  "  said 
Mr.  Puddlebox  to  the  sea,  bending  down  to  it.  "  Why 
don't  you  break  and  roar  in  waves  with  foam?  You'd 
be  more  like  fire  then.  There'd  be  something  in  you 
then.  It's  the  dead  look  of  you.  It's  the  thick  look  of 
you.  Why  don't  you  break  and  roar?  It's  the  swelling 
up  from  under  of  you.  It's  the  sucking  of  you.  Why 
don't  you  break  and  roar?  " 


WATER  THAT  TAKES  YOUR  BREATH    171 

No  answer  to  that.  Only  the  aching  stillness.  Only 
the  very  tiniest,  tiniest  lapping  of  the  water  as  it  welled 
and  swelled:  sometimes  the  tiny  rattle  of  a  stone  that 
from  the  ridge  against  the  cliff  the  sucking  water  sucked. 

In  that  silence  Mr.  Puddlebox  continued  to  stare  at 
the  water.  He  stared  at  it;  and  at  its  silence,  and  as 
he  stared,  and  as  silent,  motionless,  he  continued  to 
stare,  his  face  began  to  w^ork  as,  in  the  presence  of  a 
sleeper,  sudden  stealthy  resolve  might  come  to  one 
that  watched.  Then  he  began  to  act  as  though  the 
water  were  in  fact  asleep.  He  looked  all  round,  then 
he  stepped  swiftly  down  to  the  Uttle  ridge.  The  peb- 
bles gave  beneath  him  and  carried  his  left  foot  into 
the  water.  He  stood  perfectly  still,  pressed  against  the 
cliff.  "  Why  don't  you  break  and  roar?  "  whispered 
Mr.  Puddlebox.  No  answer.  No  sound.  He  began  to 
tread  very  cautiously  towards  the  further  pier,  the 
palms  of  his  hands  against  the  cliff,  and  his  face  anx- 
iously towards  the  sea,  and  all  his  action  as  though 
he  moved  in  stealth  and  thought  to  give  the  sea  the 
slip.  As  he  neared  the  barrier,  so  neared  the  cUff  the 
sea.  When  but  twenty  yards  remained  to  be  traversed 
the  cHff  began  to  thrust  a  buttress  seaward,  awash 
along  its  base.  "  Water  takes  your  breath,"  Mr.  Puddle- 
box had  said.  A  dozen  steps  took  him  above  his  boots, 
and  he  began  to  catch  at  his  breath  as  the  chill  struck 
him.  He  opened  his  mouth  with  the  intent  to  make 
these  sobbing  inspirations  less  noisy  than  if  drawn 
hissing  through  his  teeth.  He  slid  his  feet  as  if  to  lift 
and  splash  them  would  risk  awakening  the  sleeping  tide. 
He  was  to  his  knees  in  it  when  he  reached  the  rocks. 
Their  surface  was  green  in  slimy  weed:  that  meant  the 
tide  would  cover  them.     He  got  up,  and  on  his  hands 


172  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

and  knees  upon  the  slime  caught  at  his  breath  and 
peered  beyond. 

No  beach  was  visible  here:  only  water:  perfectly 
still. 

It  was  a  very  short  way  to  the  next  barrier,  and  of 
the  barrier  very  short  what  was  to  be  seen.  The  buttress 
of  the  cliff  pressed  steadily  out  to  what  was  no  more 
than  a  little  table  of  rock,  scarcely  thicker  above  the 
surface  than  the  thickness  of  a  table-top,  then  seemed 
to  fall  away.  A  trifle  beyond  the  table  there  upstood  a 
detached  pile  of  rock,  rather  like  a  pulpit  and  standing 
about  a  pulpit's  height  above  the  water.  That  table  — 
when  it  ran  far  out  along  the  shore  —  was  where  Mr. 
Puddlebox,  looking  back,  had  last  seen  his  loony  stand. 
He  remembered  it,  for  he  remembered  the  summit  of 
the  pulpit  rock  that  peered  above  it. 

The  idea  to  shout  occurred  to  him.  That  low  table 
seemed  to  mark  a  corner.  His  loony  might  be  beyond 
it.  If  he  shouted  —  He  did  not  dare  to  shout.  Here, 
more  than  before,  the  intensity  of  the  silence  possessed 
him.  He  did  not  dare  to  break  it.  Here,  with  no  beach 
visible,  the  water  seemed  profoundly  dead  in  slumber. 

"  Why  don't  you  break  and  roar?  "  said  Mr.  Puddle- 
box.  "  Why  don't  you  —  "  he  held  his  breath  and 
crept  forward.  He  lowered  himself  and  caught  his 
breath.  His  feet  crunched  upon  the  shingle  bed,  the 
water  stood  above  his  knees,  and  while  the  stones  still 
moved  where  he  had  disturbed  them  he  stood  perfectly 
still.  When  they  had  settled  he  began  to  move,  side- 
ways, very  slowly,  his  back  against  the  cliff.  Each  side- 
long step  took  him  deeper;  at  each  he  more  sharply 
caught  his  breath.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though  the  cliff 
were  actually  pressing  him  forward  with  huge  hands. 


WATER  THAT  TAKES  YOUR  BREATH  173 

He  pressed  against  it  with  all  his  force  as  though  to  hold 
it  back.  It  thrust  him,  thrust  him,  thrust  him.  He 
was  deep  to  his  thighs.  He  was  deep  to  his  waist. 
"  Water  takes  your  breath,"  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  said. 
At  each  deepening  step  more  violently  his  breath 
seemed  to  be  taken,  more  clutchingly  had  to  be  re- 
called. He  was  above  his  waist.  He  stumbled  and 
gave  a  cry  and  recovered  himself  and  began  to  go  back; 
tried  to  control  his  dreadful  breathing;  came  on  again; 
then  again  retreated.  Now  his  breathing  that  had  been 
sobbing  gasps  became  sheer  sobs.  He  suddenly  turned 
from  his  sidelong  progress,  went  backwards  in  two 
splashing  strides  whence  he  had  come  —  in  three,  in 
four,  and  then  in  a  panic  headlong  rush,  and  as  if  he 
were  pursued  clambered  frantically  out  again  upon 
the  slimy  rocks. 

As  if  he  were  pursued  —  and  now,  as  if  to  sight  the 
pursuit,  looked  sobbing  back  upon  the  water  he  had 
churned.  There  was  scarcely  a  sign  of  his  churning. 
Scarcely  a  mark  of  his  track.  Still  as  before  the  water 
lay  there.  Still,  and  thick,  and  silent,  and  asleep,  and 
seemed  to  mock  his  fears. 

"Blast  you!"  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox,  responsive  to 
the  silent  mock.  "  Blast  you,  why  don't  you  break 
and  roar?  "  He  put  a  foot  down  to  it  and  glared  at  the 
water.  "  Why  in  hell  don't  you  break  and  roar?  "  cried 
Mr.  Puddlebox,  and  flung  himself  in  again,  and  splashed 
to  the  point  at  which  he  had  turned  and  fled,  and  drew 
a  deep  breath  and  went  forward  above  his  waist.  .  .  . 

The  cliff  thrust  him  out  and  he  was  deeper;  thrust 
again,  and  he  was  above  his  waist.  "  Takes  your 
breath  "  —  he  was  catching  at  his  breath  in  immense 
spasms.    The  shore  dropped  beneath  his  feet  and  he  was 


174  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

to  his  armpits,  the  table  of  rock  a  long  pace  away.  He 
was  drawn  from  the  cliff,  and  he  screamed  in  dreadful 
fear.  He  tried  to  go  back  and  floundered  deeper.  He 
was  drowning,  he  knew.  If  he  lost  his  footing  —  and 
he  was  losing  it  —  he  would  go  down,  and  if  he  went 
down  he  never  would  rise  again.  He  called  aloud  on 
God  and  screamed  aloud  in  wordless  terror.  The  tide 
swung  him  against  the  cliff  and  drew  him  screaming  and 
clutching  along  it.  He  stumbled  and  knew  himself 
gone.  His  hands  struck  the  table  of  rock.  He  clutched, 
found  his  feet,  sprang  frantically,  and  drew  himself 
upon  it.  He  lay  there  exhausted  and  moaning.  When 
his  abject  mind  was  able  to  give  words  to  his  moans, 
"  0  my  Christ,  don't  let  me  drown,"  he  said.  "  Not 
after  that,  Christ,  don't  let  me  drown.  O  merciful 
Christ,  not  after  that." 

After  a  Httle  he  opened  his  eyes  that  had  been  shut 
in  bewilderment  of  blind  terror  and  in  preparation  of 
death  and  that  he  had  not  courage  or  thought  to  open. 
He  opened  his  eyes.    This  is  what  he  saw. 

Beneath  his  chin,  as  he  lay,  the  still,  deep  water. 
Close  upon  his  right  hand  the  cliff  that  towered  upwards 
to  the  night.  A  narrow  channel  away  from  him  stood 
the  pulpit  rock.  The  cliff  ran  sharply  back  from  beside 
him,  then  thrust  again  towards  the  pulpit;  stopped 
short  of  it  and  then  pressed  onwards  out  to  sea.  Its 
backward  dip  formed  a  tiny  inlet  over  which,  masking 
it  from  the  open  sea,  the  pulpit  rock  stood  sentinel. 
The  back  of  the  inlet  showed  at  its  centre  a  small  cave 
that  had  the  appearance  of  a  human  mouth,  open.  At 
low  water  this  mouth  would  have  stood  a  tall  man's 
height  above  the  beach.  A  short  ridge  ran  along  its 
upper  lip.     In  the  dim  light  it  showed  there  blackly 


WATER  THAT  TAKES  YOUR  BREATH    175 

like  a  little  clump  of  moustache.  From  its  under  lip, 
forming  a  narrow  slipway  of  beach  up  to  it,  there  ran  a 
rubble  of  stones  as  if  the  mouth  had  emitted  them  or  as 
if  its  tongue  depended  into  the  sea.  The  corners  of  the 
mouth  drooped,  and  here,  as  if  they  slobbered,  the  water 
trickled  in  and  out  responsive  to  the  heaving  of  the  tide. 
Mr.  Wriford  lay  upon  this  slip.  He  lay  face  down- 
wards. His  arms  from  his  elbows  were  extended  within 
tLe  mouth  of  the  cave.  His  boots  were  in  the  water. 
His  legs,  as  Mr.  Puddlebox  thought,  lay  oddly  twisted. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WATER  THAT   SWELLS   AND   SUCKS 

Who  is  so  vile  a  coward  that  one  weaker  than  himself, 
in  worse  distress,  shall  not  arrest  his  cowardice?  Who 
that  has  given  love  so  lost  in  fear  as  not  to  love  anew, 
amain,  when  out  of  peril  his  love  is  called?  Who  so 
base  then  not  to  lose  in  gladness  what  held  his  soul  in 
dread? 

First  Mr.  Puddlebox  only  stared.  Water  that  takes 
your  breath  had  taken  his.  Water  that  takes  your 
breath  rose  in  a  thin  film  over  the  rock  where  on  his  face 
he  lay,  passed  beneath  his  body,  chilled  him  anew,  and 
took  his  breath  again.  He  watched  it  ooze  from  under 
him  and  spread  before  him :  lip  upwards  where  he  faced 
it  and  ooze  beneath  his  hands.  Then  gave  his  eyes 
again  towards  the  cave. 

Who  is  so  vile  a  coward?  Mr.  Puddlebox's  teeth  chat- 
tered with  his  body's  frozen  chill :  worse,  worse,  with  ter- 
ror of  what  he  had  escaped  —  God,  when  that  sucking 
water  sucked!  —  fast,  faster  with  that  worse  horror  he 
besought  heaven  "  not  after  that  "  should  overtake  him. 
Who  so  vile,  so  base?  Ah,  then  that  piteous  thing  that 
lay  before  his  eyes!  in  shape  so  odd,  so  ugly  —  broken? 
dead?  Whom  he  had  seen  so  wild,  so  eager?  who  child 
had  been  to  him  and  treated  as  a  child?  Who  first 
and  only  in  all  these  years  of  sin  had  looked  to  him  for 
aid,  for  counsel,  strength?    Who  must  have  fought  this 

176 


WATER  THAT  SWELLS  AND   SUCKS    177 

filthy,  cruel,  silent,  sucking  water,  and  fighting  it  have 
called  him,  wanted  him?    Ah! 

Who  is  so  vile?  "  Loony,"  Mr.  Puddlebox  whispered. 
"Loony!     Hey,  boy!" 

He  only  whispered.  He  did  not  dare  a  cry  that  should 
demand  an  answer  —  and  demanding,  no  answer  bring. 
"  Hey,  boy!  Loony!  "  He  tried  to  raise  his  voice.  He 
dared  not  raise  it.  Anew  and  thicker  now  the  water 
filmed  the  rock  about  him.  Here  was  death :  well,  there 
was  death  —  that  piteous  thing.  .  .  . 

Then  change!  Then  out  of  death  life!  Then  gladness 
out  of  dread!  Then  joy's  tumult  as  one  beside  a  form 
beneath  a  sheet  should  see  the  dead  loved  move. 

About  the  sHpway,  as  he  watched,  he  saw  the  swelling 
water,  as  if  with  sudden  impulse,  swell  over  Mr.  Wri- 
ford's  boots,  run  to  his  knees,  and  in  response  the  prone 
figure  move  —  the  shoulders  raise  as  if  to  drag  the 
body:  raise  very  feebly  and  very  feebly  drop  as  if  the 
oddly  twisted  legs  were  chained. 

Feebly  —  ah,  but  in  sign  of  life !  Revulsion  from  fear 
to  gladness  brought  Mr.  Puddlebox  scrambling  to  his 
feet  and  upright  upon  them.  To  a  loud  cry  there  would 
be  answer  then!  Loudly  he  challenged  it.  "  Loony!  " 
cried  Mr.  Puddlebox,  his  voice  athrill.  "  Hey,  boy, 
what's  wrong?    I'm  coming  to  you,  boy!  " 

It  was  a  groan  that  answered  him. 

"  Are  you  hurt,  boy?  " 

There  answered  him:  "Oh,  for  God's  sake  —  oh,  for 
God's  sake!  " 

"  Why,  that's  my  loony!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  in  a 
very  loud  voice.    "Hold  on,  boy!    I'm  coming  to  you!  " 

Excitedly,  in  excited  gladness  his  terrors  bound  up, 
quickly  as  he  could,  catching  at  his  breath  as  his  fears 


178  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

caught  him,  stifling  them  in  jolly  shouts  of:  "  Hold  on 
for  me,  boy!  Why,  here  I  come,  boy,  this  very  minute!  " 
he  started  to  make  his  way,  excitedly  pursued  it. 

"  Hold  on  for  me,  boy!  "  The  cliff  along  the  wall  of 
the  inlet  against  which  he  stood  shelved  downwards 
into  the  dark,  still  sea.  "  Here  I  come,  boy!  "  He  went 
on  his  face  on  the  table  rock  and  with  his  legs  felt  in  the 
water  beneath  him  and  behind  him.  "  Hold  on  for  me, 
boy!  "  His  feet  foimd  a  ridge,  and  he  lowered  himself 
to  it  and  began  to  feel  his  way  along  it,  his  hands  against 
the  chff,  above  his  waist  the  still,  dark  sea.  "  Here  I 
come,  boy!    This  very  minute!  " 

So  he  cried:  so  he  came  —  deeper,  and  now  his  perils 
rose  to  fight  what  brought  him  on.  Deeper  —  the 
water  took  his  breath.  "  Here  I  come,  boy!  "  Stumbled 
—  thought  himself  gone,  knew  as  it  were  an  icy  hand 
thrust  in  his  vitals  from  the  depths,  clutching  his  very 
heart.  "  I'm  to  you  now,  boy.  Here  —  "  Terror 
burst  in  a  cry  to  his  mouth.  He  changed  it  to  "  Whoa!  " 
He  was  brought  by  the  ridge  on  which  he  walked  to  a 
point  opposite  what  of  the  slipway  before  the  cave 
stood  dry.  The  ridge  ended  abruptly.  He  had  almost 
gone  beyond  it,  almost  slipped  and  gone,  almost 
screamed. 

"  Whoa!  "  said  Mr.  Puddlebox.  "  Hold  on  for  me, 
boy!  "  He  took  his  hands  from  the  cliff  and  faced  about 
where  Mr.  Wriford  lay.  Shaken,  he  felt  his  way  lower. 
God,  again!  Again  his  foothold  terminated!  Abruptly 
he  could  feel  his  way  no  more.  Like  a  hand,  like  a  hand 
at  his  throat,  the  water  caught  his  breath.  "  Hold  on 
for  me,  boy!  "  His  voice  was  thick.  "  Hold  on  for  me, 
boy!  "  Clear  again,  but  he  stood,  stood,  and  where  he 
stood  the  water  swayed  him.    Here  the  cliff  base  seemed 


WATER  THAT  SWELLS  AND   SUCKS     179 

to  drop.  Here  the  depths  waited  him.  Facing  his  feet 
he  knew  must  be  the  wall  of  the  slipway.  No  more  than 
a  long  stride  —  ah,  no  more!  If  he  launched  himself 
and  threw  himself,  his  foot  must  strike  it,  his  arms  come 
upon  its  surface  where  that  figure  lay.  Only  a  long 
stride.  What,  when  he  made  it,  if  no  foothold  offered? 
What  if  he  missed,  clutched,  fell?  He  looked  across  the 
narrow  space.  Only  that  spring's  distance  that  figure 
lay,  its  face  turned  from  him.  He  Ustened.  The  silence 
ached,  tingled  all  about  him.  Suddenly  it  gave  him 
from  the  figure  the  sound  of  breathing  that  came  and 
went  in  moans. 

Who  is  so  vile  a  coward?  Swiftly  Mr.  Puddlebox 
crouched,  nerved,  braced  himself  to  spring.  Ah,  swifter 
thrust  his  mind,  and  bright  as  flame  and  fierce  as  flame, 
as  a  flame  shouting,  flamed  flaming  vision  before  his 
starting  eyes.  He  saw  himself  leap.  He  saw  himself 
clutch,  falling  —  God,  he  could  feel  his  finger-nails  rasp 
and  split!  —  fallen,  gone:  rising  to  gulp  and  scream, 
sinking  to  suffocate  and  gulp  and  writhe  and  rise  and 
scream  and  gulp  and  sink  and  go.  Like  flame,  like 
flame,  the  vision  leapt  —  upstreaming  from  the  water, 
shouting  in  his  ears.  Thrice  he  crouched  to  spring;  thrice 
like  flame  the  vision  thundered:  thrice  passed  as  flame 
that  bursts  before  the  wind :  thrice  left  him  to  the  still- 
ness, the  sucking  water,  the  sound  of  moaning  breath. 
A  fourth  time,  a  last  time:  ah,  now  was  gone  the  very 
will  to  bring  himself  to  crouch! 

He  stood  a  moment,  vacant,  only  trembling.  His 
senses  fluttered  back  to  him,  and  gone,  so  they 
informed  him,  something  that  before  their  flight  had 
occupied  them.  What?  In  his  shaken  state  he  was 
again    a    vacant    space    searching    for    it    before    he 


i8o  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

realised.  Then  he  knew.  There  was  no  sound  of 
breathing.  .  .  . 

Trembling  he  listened  for  it,  staring  at  the  figure. 
Still;  there  was  no  sound.  Suddenly  he  heard  it. 
Dreadfully  it  came.  Feebly,  a  moaning  inspiration: 
stillness  again  —  then  a  very  little  sigh,  very  gentle, 
very  tiny,  and  the  prone  figure  quivered,  relaxed. 

Dead?  Again,  as  on  the  table  rock,  afraid  to  call 
aloud,  "  Loony!  "  Mr.  Puddlebox  whispered.  "  Hey, 
boy!  " 

No  answer.  SwelHng  about  him  came  the  creeping 
water,  swayed  him,  swelled  and  swayed  again:  high 
to  his  chest,  higher  now  and  moving  him  —  moving, 
sucking,  drawing.  Here  was  death:  ah,  well,  wait  a 
moment,  for  there  was  death  —  that  piteous  thing  face 
downwards  there.  He  spoke  softly:  "Hey,  boy,  are 
you  gone?  "  The  water  rocked  him.  He  cried  brokenly, 
loudly:   "  Loony!    Are  you  gone,  boy?  " 

Again,  again,  life  out  of  death,  joy's  tumult  out  of 
fear! 

He  saw  Mr.  Wriford  draw  down  his  arms,  press  on  his 
elbows,  raise,  then  turn  towards  him  his  face,  most 
dreadfully  grey,  most  dreadfully  drawn  in  pain. 

Who  so  vile,  so  base? 

Swift,  swift  revulsion  to  gladness  out  of  dread.  "  Why, 
that's  my  loony!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  in  a  very  loud 
voice. 

Mr.  Wriford  said:   "  Have  you  come?  " 

*'  Why,  here  I  am,  boy!  "    He  steadied  his  feet. 

Very  feebly,  scarcely  to  be  heard:  "  I  don't  see  you." 

"  Why,  there's  no  more  than  my  nob  to  be  seen, 
boy!  I'm  here  to  my  nob  in  the  water."  His  feet 
were  firm.    He  braced  himself.    "  I'm  to  you,  boy,  and 


WATER  THAT  SWELLS  AND   SUCKS     i8i 

I'm  in  the  most  plaguy  place  as  I  challenge  any  man 
ever  to  have  been."  He  crouched.  "  I've  to  jump,  boy, 
and  how  to  the  devil  —  " 

He  launched  himself.  His  foot  struck  the  slipway 
bank  —  no  hold!  Smooth  rock,  and  his  foot  glanced 
down  it!  He  had  thought  to  spring  upward  from  what 
purchase  his  foot  might  find.  It  found  none.  Clutch- 
ing as  he  fell,  he  obtained  no  more  than  his  arms  upon 
the  shingle  of  the  slipway,  his  chin  upon  it,  his  elbows 
thrusting  deep,  his  fingers  clutching  in  the  yielding 
stones. 

"  Loony!  "  Mr.  Puddlebox  cried.     "  Loony!  " 

He  slipped  further.  He  suddenly  screamed:  "Loony, 
I'm  going!    Christ,  I'm  going!  " 

His  face,  in  fine  with  Mr.  Wriford's,  two  arm's-lengths 
from  it,  was  dreadfully  distorted,  his  lips  wide,  his 
teeth  grinding.  He  choked  between  them:  "  Can  you 
help  me,  boy?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  was  tr>-ing  to  help  him.  Mr.  Wriford 
was  working  towards  him  on  his  elbows,  his  face  twisted 
in  agony.  As  he  came,  "  My  legs  are  broken,"  he  said. 
"  I'll  reach  you.    I'll  reach  you." 

Eye  to  eye  and  dreadfully  eyed  they  stared  one  upon 
the  other.  A  foot's  breadth  between  them  now,  and  now 
their  fingers  almost  touching. 

"  I'm  done,  boy!  Christ,  I'm  done!  "  But  with  the 
very  cry,  and  with  his  hand  so  near  to  Mr.  Wriford's 
slipped  again  beyond  it,  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  sudden 
change  of  voice,  sudden  gleam  in  the  eyes  that  had 
stood  out  in  horror.  "  Curse  me,  I'm  not!  "  cried  Mr. 
Puddlebox.  "  Curse  me,  I've  bested  it.  I've  found  a 
hole  for  my  foot.  Ease  up,  boy.  I'm  to  you.  By  God, 
I'm  to  you  after  all!  " 


i82  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

Groan  that  was  prayer  of  thanks  came  from  Mr. 
Wriford.  Fainting,  his  head  dropped  forward  on  his 
hands.  There  was  tremendous  commotion  in  the  water 
as  Mr.  Puddlebox  sprang  up  it  from  his  foothold, 
thrashing  it  with  his  legs  as,  chest  upon  the  shingle, 
he  struggled  tremendously.  Then  he  drew  himself  out 
and  on  his  knees,  dripping,  and  bent  over  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  I'm  to  you  now,  boy!  You're  all  right  now.  Boy, 
you're  all  right  now." 

The  swelling  water  swelled  with  new  impulse  up  the 
shingle,  washed  him  where  he  knelt,  ran  beneath  Mr. 
Wriford's  face,  and  trickled  in  the  stones  beyond  it. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  looked  back  upon  it  over  his  shoulder. 
He  could  not  see  the  table  rock  where  he  had  lain.  Only 
the  pulpit  rock  upstood,  and  deep  and  black  the  channel 
on  either  hand  between  it  and  the  walls  of  their  inlet. 
He  looked  within  the  cave  mouth  before  him  and  could 
see  its  inner  face.  It  was  no  more  than  a  shallow  hol- 
lowing by  the  sea.  He  looked  upwards  and  saw  the 
cliff  towering  into  the  night,  overhanging  as  it  mounted. 

He  passed  his  tongue  about  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  V 

WATER  THAT  BREAKS  AND   ROARS 


In  a  very  little  while  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  dragged  Mr. 
Wriford  the  three  paces  that  gave  them  the  mouth  of 
the  cave  and  had  sat  him  upright  there,  his  back  against 
the  cliff.  Mr.  Wriford  had  groaned  while  he  was  being 
moved,  now  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  Mr. 
Puddlebox  bending  over  him. 

"  Why,  that's  my  loony!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  very 
cheerfully.  The  flicker  of  a  smile  rewarded  him  and 
from  the  moment  of  that  smile  he  concealed,  until  they 
parted,  the  terrors  that  consumed  him.  "  Why,  that's 
my  loony!  "  cried  he,  and  went  on  one  knee,  smiling 
confidently  in  Mr.  Wriford's  face.  "  What's  happened 
to  you,  boy?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  said  weakly:  "I've  broken  my  legs.  I 
think  both  my  legs  are  broken."  He  indicated  the 
pulpit  rock  with  a  motion  of  his  head.  "  I  chmbed  up 
there.  Then  I  thought  I'd  jump  down.  Very  high  and 
rocky  imderneath,  but  I  thought  of  it,  and  so  I  did  it. 
I  didn't  land  properly.    I  twisted  my  legs." 

He  groaned  and  closed  his  eyes. '  "  Well,  well,"  said 
Mr.  Puddlebox,  holding  his  hands  and  patting  them. 
"  There,  boy,  there.  You're  all  right  now.  I'm  to  you 
now,  boy." 

183 


i84  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  I  suppose  I  fainted,"  Mr.  Wriford  said.  "  I  found 
it  was  night  and  the  tide  up  to  my  feet.  I  began  to  drag 
myself.  I  dragged  myself  up  and  up,  and  the  tide  fol- 
lowed.   Is  it  still  coming?  " 

"  You're  all  right  now,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox. 
"  Boy,  you're  all  right  now." 

He  felt  a  faint  pressure  from  Mr.  Wriford's  hands 
that  he  held;  he  saw  in  Mr.  Wriford's  eyes  the  same 
message  that  the  pressure  communicated.  He  twisted 
sharply  on  his  heels,  turning  with  a  fierce  and  threaten- 
ing miotion  upon  the  water  as  one  hemmed  in  by  ever- 
bolder  wolves  might  turn  to  drive  them  back. 

From  where  he  knelt  the  water  was  almost  to  be 
touched. 

II 

Mr.  Puddlebox  got  to  his  feet  and  stooped  and  peered 
within  the  cave.  The  moon  silvered  a  patch  of  its  inner 
face.  It  gleamed  wetly.  He  looked  to  its  roof.  Water 
dripped  upon  his  upturned  face.  The  cave  would  fill, 
when  the  tide  was  full.  He  caught  his  breath  as  he 
realised  that,  looked  out  upon  the  dark,  still  sea,  and 
caught  his  breath  again.  He  stepped  out  backwards 
till  his  feet  were  in  the  water  and  looked  up  the  towering 
cliff.  It  made  him  sick  and  dizzy,  and  he  staggered  a 
splashing  step,  then  looked  again.  To  the  line  of  the 
indentation  that  had  seemed  like  a  clump  of  moustache 
upon  the  cave's  upper  lip,  the  cliff  on  either  hand 
showed  dark.  Above  that  line  its  slaty  hue  was 
lighter. 

That  was  high-water  mark. 

He  went  a  step  forward  and  stood  on  tiptoe.  The 
tips  of  his  fingers  could  just  reach  the  narrow  indenta- 


WATER   THAT   BREAKS   AND   ROARS    185 

tion  —  just  the  tips  of  his  fingers:  and  sick  again  he 
went  and  dizzy  and  came  down  to  his  heels  and  turned 
and  stared  upon  the  dark,  still  sea. 

Then  he  went  to  Mr.  Wriford  again  and  crouched 
beside  him:  took  his  hands  and  patted  them  and 
smiled  at  him,  but  did  not  speak. 

Mr.  Wriford  spoke.  He  said  tonelessly:  "  Are  we 
going  to  drown?  " 

"  Drown?  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  in  a  very  loud  voice. 
"  Why,  boy,  what  to  the  devil  has  drowning  got  to  do 
with  it?  Drown!  I  was  just  thinking,  that's  all.  I  was 
thinking  of  my  supper  —  pork  and  onions,  boy;  and 
when  to  the  devil  I  shall  have  had  enough,  once  I  get 
to  it,  I  challenge  you  to  say  or  any  other  man.  Drown, 
boy!  Why,  these  poor  twisted  legs  of  yours  have  got 
into  your  head  to  think  of  such  a  thing!  You  can't  be 
thinking  this  bit  of  a  splash  is  going  to  drown  us?  Why, 
listen  to  this,  boy  —  "  and  with  that  Mr.  Puddlebox 
turned  to  the  sea  and  stretching  an  arm  towards  it 
trolled  in  a  very  deep  voice: 

"  O  ye  sea  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord:  praise  Him 
and  magnify  Him  for  ever ! 

"  That's  all  that  bit  of  a  splash  is  going  to  do,"  said 
Mr.  Puddlebox  very  cheerfully;  "  going  to  praise  the 
Lord  and  going  to  damp  our  boots  if  we  let  it,  which, 
curse  me,  we  won't.  All  we've  got  to  think  about  is 
where  we're  going  to  sit  till  the  water  goes  back  where, 
curse  me,  it  should  always  be  instead  of  shoving  itself 
up  here.  One  place  is  as  good  as  another,  boy,  and 
there's  plenty  of  them,  but  I  know  the  best.  Now  I'm 
going  to  shift  you  back  a  bit,  loony,"  Mr.  Puddlebox 
continued,  standing  upright,  "  and  then  we're  going  to 
sit  together  a  half-hour  or  so,  and  then  I'm  going  to 


i86  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

have  my  pork  and  onions,  and  you're  going  to  be  car- 
ried to  bed." 

Very  tenderly  Mr.  Puddlebox  drew  Mr.  Wriford  back 
within  the  cave.  "  Now  you  watch  me,"  said  Mr. 
Puddlebox,  "  because  for  once  in  your  life  I'm  the  one 
that's  going  to  do  things  while  you  look  on.  There's 
only  a  pair  of  good  legs  between  us,  boy,  and  that's 
ample  for  two  of  us,  but,  curse  me,  they're  mine,  and 
I'm  going  to  do  what  I  want  with  them." 

While  in  jolly  accents  he  spoke  thus  Mr.  Puddlebox 
was  dislodging  from  the  floor  of  the  cave  large  stones 
that  lay  embedded  in  the  shingle  and  pihng  them  be- 
neath the  indentation  that  showed  upon  the  cave's 
upper  lip.  He  sang  as  he  worked.  Sometimes  "  O  ye 
sea  "  as  he  had  trolled  before;  sometimes  "  0  ye  stones;  " 
sometimes,  as  he  tugged  at  a  larger  boulder  —     ' 

"  0  ye  fearful  weights,  bless  ye  the  Lord:  praise  Him 
and  magnify  Him  for  ever!  " 

Always  with  each  variation  he  turned  a  Jolly  face  to 
Mr.  Wriford;  always  he  turned  from  Mr.  Wriford 
towards  the  sea  that  now  had  reached  the  pedestal  he 
was  building  a  face  that  was  grey,  that  twitched  in  fear. 

"  O  ye  whacking  great  stones,  bless  ye  the  Lord: 
praise  Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever!  " 

Knee-high  he  built  his  pedestal,  working  furiously 
though  striving  to  conceal  his  haste.  Now  he  stood  in 
water  as  he  strengthened  the  pile.  Now  the  water  had 
swelled  past  it  and  swelled  to  Mr.  Wriford's  outstretched 
feet.  Now  Mr.  Puddlebox  climbed  upon  the  mound  of 
stones  and  brought  his  head  above  the  narrow  indenta- 
tion above  the  cave.  It  showed  itself  to  be  a  little  ledge. 
He  thrust  an  arm  upon  it  and  found  it  as  broad  as  the 
length  of  his  forearm,  narrowing  as  it  went  back  to  end 


WATER  THAT  BREAKS  AND  ROARS    187 

in  a  niche  that  ran  a  short  way  up  the  cHff.  There  was 
room  for  one  to  sit  there,  legs  hanging  down;  perhaps 
for  two  —  if  two  could  gain  it. 

Mr.  Puddlebox  dropped  back  to  the  water  and  now 
dragged  last  stones  that  should  make  a  step  to  his  pile. 
Then  he  went  to  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  Now,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  very  cheerfully. 
"  Now  I've  got  the  cosiest  little  seat  for  you,  and  now 
for  you  to  get  to  it.    You  can't  stand?  " 

"  I  can't,"  Mr.  Wriford  said. 

"  Try  if  I  can  prop  you  against  the  cHff." 

He  took  Mr.  Wriford  beneath  the  arms  and  began  to 
raise  him.  Mr.  Wriford  implored:  "  Don't  hurt  me!  " 
and  as  he  was  raised  from  the  ground  screamed  dread- 
fully. "Oh,  God!  Oh,  God,  don't,  don't;"  and 
when  set  down  again  lay  feebly  moaning:  "  Don't! 
Don't!  " 

There  immediately  began  the  most  dreadful  business. 

"  Boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox,  "  I've  got  to  hurt  you. 
I'll  be  gentle  as  I  can,  my  loony.  Boy,  you've  got  to 
bear  it."  He  abandoned  his  pretence  of  their  safety, 
and  for  his  jolly  humour  that  had  supported  it,  permitted 
voice  and  speech  that  denied  it  and  revealed  the  stress 
of  their  position.  "  Boy,  the  tide  is  making  on  us.  It's 
to  fill  this  cave,  boy,  before  it  turns.  There's  slow 
drowning  waiting  for  us  unless  I  lift  you  where  I've  found 
a  place." 

"  Let  me  drown!  "  Mr.  Wriford  said.  "  Oh,  let  me 
drown." 

The  sea  drove  in  and  washed  the  cave  on  every  side. 
Involuntarily  Mr.  Wriford  cried  out  in  fear  and  stretched 
his  arms  to  Mr.  Puddlebox,  bending  above  him. 

"  Come,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  took  him 


i88  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

again  beneath  the  arms:  again  as  he  was  moved  he 
cried:   "Don't!    Don't!" 

"  Boy,"  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  fiercely,  "  will  you 
watch  me  drown  before  your  eyes?  " 

"  Save  yourself  then.    Save  yourself." 

"  By  God  Almighty  I  will  not.  If  you  won't  let  me 
lift  you  you  shall  drown  me." 

Then  determinedly  he  passed  his  hands  beneath  Mr. 
Wriford's  arms;  then  resolutely  shut  his  ears  to  dreadful 
cries  of  pain;  then,  then  the  dreadful  business.  "  Boy, 
I've  got  to  hurt  you.  I'll  be  gentle,  my  loony.  Bear 
it,  boy,  oh,  for  Christ's  sake  bear  it.  Round  my  neck, 
boy.    Hold  tight.    Bear  it,  boy;  bear  it." 

He  carried  his  arms  round  Mr.  Wriford's  back,  down- 
wards and  beneath  his  thighs  and  locked  them  there. 
There  were  dreadful  screams;  but  dreadfully  the  water 
swelled  about  them,  and  he  held  on;  there  were  moans 
that  rent  him  as  they  sounded;  but  he  spoke:  "  Bear  it, 
boy;  bear  it!  "  and  with  his  burden  waded  forth. 

He  faced  from  the  sea  and  towards  the  pedestal  he 
had  built. 

"Loony!" 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  set  me  down." 

"  Now  I've  to  raise  you." 

He  began  to  press  upwards  with  his  arms,  raising  his 
burden  high  on  his  chest. 

"  Wade  out  and  drown  me,"  Mr.  Wriford  cried.  "  If 
you've  any  mercy,  for  God's  sake  drown  me!  " 

"  You're  to  obey  me,  boy.  By  God,  you  shall  obey 
me,  or  I'll  hurt  you  worse.  Catch  in  my  hair.  Hold 
yourself  up  by  my  hair.    High  as  you  can.    Up,  up!  " 

He  staggered  upon  the  steps  he  had  constructed;  he 
gained  the  pedestal  he  had  made.     He  thought  the 


WATER  THAT  BREAKS  AND   ROARS    189 

strain  had  become  insupportable  to  him  and  that  he 
must  fall  with  it.  "  Now  when  I  lift  you,  boy,  keep 
yourself  up.  I'll  bring  you  to  my  head  and  then  set 
you  back."  He  called  upon  himself  supremely  —  raised 
and  failed,  raised  and  failed  again.    "  Now,  boy,  now!  " 

He  got  Mr.  Wriford  to  the  ledge  and  thrust  him  back; 
himself  he  clung  to  the  ledge  and  almost  senseless 
swayed  between  his  hands  and  feet. 

Presently  he  looked  up.    "  You're  safe  now,  boy." 

Mr.  Wriford  watched  him  with  eyes  that  scarcely 
seemed  to  see:   he  scarcely  seemed  to  be  conscious. 

"  I  had  to  speak  sharply  to  you,  boy." 

Mr.  Wriford  advanced  a  hand  to  him,  and  he  took  it 
and  held  it.  "  There  was  nothing  in  what  I  said, 
boy." 

He  felt  the  fingers  move  in  his  that  covered  them. 
"  I  had  to  cry  out,"  Mr.  Wriford  said  weakly.  "  I 
couldn't  help  it." 

"  You  were  brave,  boy,  brave.  You're  safe  now.  The 
water  will  come  to  you.    But  you're  safe." 

"  Come  up!  "  said  Mr.  Wriford.    Come  up!  " 

"  I've  to  rest  a  moment,  boy,"  Mr.  Puddlebox  an- 
swered him. 

He  held  that  hand  while  he  stood  resting.  He  closed 
his  fingers  upon  it  when  presently  he  spoke  again.  Now 
the  sea  had  deepened  all  about,  deep  to  his  knees  where 
he  stood.  As  if  the  slipway  before  the  cave  while  it 
stood  dry  had  somehow  abated  its  volume,  it  seemed  to 
rise  visibly  and  swiftly  now  that  this  last  barrier  was 
submerged.  All  about  the  walls  of  the  inlet  deeply  and 
darkly  it  swelled,  licking  the  walls  and  running  up  them 
in  little  wavelets,  as  beasts  of  prey,  massed  in  a  cage, 
massing  and  leaping  against  the  bars. 


IQO  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  There's  no  great  room  for  me  beside  you,  boy,"  Mr. 
Puddlebox  said  and  pressed  the  fingers  that  he  held. 

"  Come  up,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Quickly  — 
quickly!  " 

Mr.  Puddlebox  looked  at  the  narrow  ledge  and  turned 
his  head  this  way  and  that  and  looked  again  upon  the 
sea. 

Ill 

Now,  while  he  looked  and  while  still  he  waited,  the 
sea's  appearance  changed.  A  wind  drove  in  from  sea- 
ward and  whipped  its  placid  surface.  Black  it  had 
been,  save  where  the  high  moon  silvered  it;  grey  as  it 
flickered  and  as  it  swelled  about  the  cliff  it  seemed  to 
go.  It  had  welled  and  swelled;  now,  from  either  side 
the  pulpit  rock  that  guarded  their  inlet,  it  drove  in  in 
steeply  heaving  mass  that  flung  within  the  cave  and  all 
along  the  cliff  and  that  the  cave  and  cliff  flung  back. 
It  were  as  if  one  with  a  whip  packed  this  full  cage  fuller 
yet,  and  as  though  those  caged  within  it  leapt  here  and 
there  and  snapped  the  air  with  flashing  teeth. 

"  Now  I'U  try  for  it,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Puddlebox. 
"  These  stones  are  shaking  under  me." 

Mr.  Wriford  withdrew  his  hand  and  with  his  hands 
painfully  raised  himself  a  little  to  one  side.  The  action 
removed  his  back  from  the  crevice  up  the  cliff  face  in 
which  it  had  rested.  A  growth  of  hardy  scrub  clung 
here,  and  Mr.  Puddlebox  thrust  forward  his  hand  and 
pulled  on  it. 

"  Now  I'll  try  for  it,  boy,"  he  said  again.  He  looked 
up  into  Mr.  Wriford's  face.  "  There's  nothing  to  talk 
about  twixt  you  and  me,  loony,"  he  said.    "  We've  had 


WATER  THAT  BREAKS  AND   ROARS    191 

some  rare  days  since  you  came  down  the  road  to  me, 
boy.  If  this  bush  comes  away  in  my  hand  and  I  slip 
and  go,  why  there's  an  end  to  it,  boy,  and  as  well  one 
way  as  another.    Don't  you  be  scared." 

"  I  shall  hold  you,"  Mr.  Wriford  said.  Intensity 
filled  out  and  strengthened  his  weak  voice.  "  I  shall 
hold  you.    I'll  never  let  you  go." 

There  began  some  protest  out  of  Mr.  Puddlebox's 
mouth.  It  was  not  articulated  when  the  rising  sea 
mastered  at  last  the  stones  beneath  his  feet;  drove  from 
him  again  his  courage;  returned  him  again  his  panic 
fear;  and  he  cried  out,  and  swiftly  crouched  and  sprang. 
He  achieved  almost  his  waist  to  the  level  of  the  ledge. 
He  swept  up  his  other  hand  to  the  scrub  in  the  crevice 
and  fastened  a  double  grip  within  it.  It  was  hold  or 
go,  but  the  scrub  held  and  his  peril  that  he  must  hold 
or  go  gave  him  immense  activity.  He  drew  himself  and 
forced  himself.  His  knee  nearer  to  Mr.  Wriford  came 
almost  upon  the  ledge,  and  Mr.  Wriford  caught  at  the 
limb  and  gripped  it  as  with  claws.  "  Your  other 
knee!  "  Mr.  Wriford  cried.  "  Higher!  For  God's  sake 
a  Httle  higher!  " 

The  further  knee  struck  the  ledge  wide  out  where  it 
no  more  than  showed  upon  the  cUff . 

"  Higher!     Higher!  " 

Horribly  from  Mr.  Puddlebox,  as  from  one  squeezed 
in  the  throat  and  in  death  straining  a  last  word:  "  Hold 
me!  Hold  me,  boy!  Don't  let  me  drown  in  that 
water!  " 

"Higher!    Higher!" 

"  Don't  let  me  drown  —  don't  let  me  drown  in  that 
water!  " 

"  Higher!    An  inch  —  an  inch  higher." 


192  THE   CLEAN   HEART 

The  inch  was  gained.    "  Now!    Now!  " 

The  knee  dug  into  the  very  rock  upon  its  inch  of  hold. 
Mr.  Puddlebox  clutched  higher  in  the  scrub,  drew  up 
his  other  leg,  drew  in  his  knees  and  knelt  against  the 
cliff. 

Unstrung,  and  breathing  in  spasmodic  clutches  of  his 
chest,  he  remained  a  space  in  that  position,  and  Mr. 
Wriford  collapsed  and  in  new  pain  leant  back  where  he 
sat.  Presently,  and  very  precariously,  Mr.  Puddlebox 
began  to  twist  about  and  lowered  himself  to  sit  upon  the 
ledge.  The  crevice  where  the  ledge  was  broadest  was 
between  them.  Mr.  Puddlebox  with  his  left  hand  held 
himself  in  his  seat  by  the  scrub  that  filled  this  niche, 
and  when  Mr.  Wriford  smiled  weakly  at  him  and 
weakly  murmured,  "  Safe  now,"  he  repHed:  "  There's 
very  Uttle  room,  boy,"  and  looked  anxiously  upon  the 
sea  that  now  in  angry  waves  was  mounting  to  them. 
He  looked  from  there  to  the  dark  line  on  either  hand 
that  marked  the  height  of  the  tide's  run.  The  line  was 
level  with  his  waist  as  he  sat.  He  looked  at  Mr.  Wriford 
and  saw  how  narrow  his  perch,  and  down  to  the  sea 
again.  He  said  to  himself:  "  That's  four  times  I've 
been  a  dirty  coward."  He  said  in  excuse:  "  Takes  your 
breath,"  and  caught  his  breath  and  looked  upon  the  sea. 

IV 

Now  was  full  evidence,  and  evidence  increasing,  of 
that  "  blowing  up  dirty  "  of  which  he  had  been  informed, 
and  which  the  stillness  of  the  swelling  water  had  seemed 
to  falsify.  "  Why  don't  you  break  and  roar?  "  Mr. 
Puddlebox  had  asked  the  sea.  White  and  loud  it  broke 
along  the  cliff,  snatching  up  to  them,  falling  away  as 


WATER  THAT  BREAKS  AND   ROARS    193 

beasts  that  crouch  to  spring,  then  up  and  higher  and 
snatching  them  again.  The  moon,  as  if  her  watch  was 
up,  withdrew  in  clouds  and  only  sometimes  peered. 
The  wind,  as  if  he  now  took  charge,  came  strongly 
and  strongly  called  the  sea.  The  sea,  as  if  the  moon 
released  it,  broke  from  her  stilly  bonds  and  gave  itself 
to  vicious  play.  Strongly  it  rose.  It  reached  their 
hanging  feet.  Stronger  yet  as  night  drew  on,  and  now 
set  towards  the  corner  of  the  inlet  nearer  to  Mr.  Wri- 
ford's  side  and  there,  repulsed,  washed  up,  and  there, 
upspringing,  washed  in  a  widening  motion  towards  their 
ledge. 

They  sat  and  waited,  rarely  with  speech. 

At  long  intervals  Mr.  Puddlebox  would  say:   "  Boy!  " 

No  more  than  a  moan  would  answer  him. 

"  That's  all  right,  boy." 


Quite  suddenly  the  water  came.  Without  premoni- 
tory splash  or  leap  of  spray,  quite  suddenly,  and  strongly, 
deeply,  that  widening  motion  where  the  sea  leapt  in 
its  corner  came  like  a  great  hand  sweeping  high  and 
washed  the  ledge  from  end  to  end  —  like  a  hand  sweep- 
ing and,  of  its  suddenness  and  volume,  raised  and  swept 
and  shook  them  where  they  sat. 

At  this  its  first  coming,  neither  spoke  of  it.  There 
was  only  a  gasp  from  each  as  each  was  shaken.  It  did 
not  seem  to  be  returning. 

After  a  space,  "  Boy!  "  said  Mr.  Puddlebox  again. 

"  Well?  .  .  .  well?  " 

"  That's  all  right,  boy." 

He  clung  with  his  left  hand  to  the  scrub.    He  brought 


194  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

over  his  right  and  rested  it  upon  Mr.  Wriford's  that 
held  the  ledge.    "  Is  the  pain  bad,  boy?  " 

"  I'm  past  pain.    I  don't  feel  my  legs  at  all." 

"  Cold,  boy?  " 

"  I  don't  feel  anything.  I  keep  dreaming.  I  think 
it's  dreaming." 

"  That's  all  right,  boy." 

Again,  and  again  suddenly,  that  sweeping  movement 
swept  them  —  stronger  in  force,  greater  in  volume.  It 
swept  Mr.  Wriford  towards  Mr.  Puddlebox.  It  almost 
dislodged  him.  He  was  pressed  back  and  down  by 
Mr.  Puddlebox's  hand,  and  again  the  water  came. 
They  were  scarcely  recovered,  and  once  again  it  struck 
and  shook  them. 

Now  they  sat  waiting  for  its  onsets.  Now  the  gasp 
and  dreadful  struggle  while  the  motion  swept  and  sucked 
was  scarcely  done  when  on  and  fierce  and  fiercer  yet 
again  it  came  and  shook  them. 

Now  what  happened  —  long  in  the  telling  —  hap- 
pened very  quickly. 

"  It's  the  end  —  it's  the  end,"  Mr.  Wriford  sobbed 
—  his  gasps  no  more  than  sobbing  as  each  snatch  came. 
"God,  God,  it's  the  end!" 

"  Hell  to  the  end!  "  cried  Mr.  Puddlebox  fiercely  and 
fiercely  holding  him.  "  Loony,  there's  nothing  here  to 
end  us!  Boy,  do  you  mind  that  coastguard  we  passed 
early  back?  He  walks  here  soon  after  daybreak,  he 
told  us,  when  this  bloody  tide  is  down.  He'll  help  me 
carry  you  down.  Boy,  with  your  back  in  tliis  niche 
here  you're  safe  though  the  sea  washes  ever  so.  I'm 
going  to  leave  you  to  it.    Wedge  in,  boy." 

He  began  to  sidle  away. 

Fiercely  the  sweeping  movement  struck  them,  stop- 


WATER  THAT  BREAKS  ANT)   ROARS    195 

ping  Mr.  Wriford's  protest,  driving  him  to  the  ledge's 
centre,  all  but  carrying  Mr.  Puddlebox  whence  he  clung. 

He  thrust  Mr.  Wriford  against  the  niche  and  roughly 
tore  his  hand  from  Mr.  Wriford's  grasp. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  Mr.  Wriford  cried.  "  Giv- 
ing me  your  place  —  no,  no  —  !  " 

Fiercely  was  answered:  "  Hell  to  giving  my  place! 
Not  me,  curse  me!  I'm  going  for  safety,  boy."  He  in- 
dicated the  pulpit  rock  whose  surface  dryly  upstood 
before  them.  "  Easy  to  get  on  there.  I'm  going  to 
swim  there." 

"You  can't  swim!     No  —  you  shall  not  —  no!" 

Again  the  beat  of  rushing  water.  Scarcely  seated 
where  he  had  edged,  Mr.  Puddlebox  was  dragged  away, 
clung,  and  was  left  upon  the  ledge's  last  extremity.  As 
glad  and  radiant  as  ever  it  had  been,  the  old  jolly  beam 
came  to  his  face,  to  his  mouth  the  old  jolly  words. 
"  Swim!  Why,  boy,  I'd  swim  that  rotten  far  with  my 
hands  tied.  Curse  me,  I'd  never  go  if  I  couldn't.  Swim! 
Why,  curse  me,  I  will  swim  you  or  any  man,  and  I  chal- 
lenge any  to  the  devil  to  best  me  at  it.  Wedge  back, 
boy.    Wedge  back." 

He  turned  away  his  jolly  face,  and  to  the  waiting 
water  turned  a  face  drawn  and  horrible  in  fear. 

Water  that  takes  your  breath! 

He  swung  himself  forward  on  his  hands  and  dropped. 
He  drowned  instantly. 

There  had  been  no  pretence  of  swimming.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  struggle.  In  one  moment  he  had  been 
balancing  between  his  hands  in  seated  posture  on  the 
ledge.    In  the  next  down  and  swallowed  up  and  gone. 

Eyes  that  looked  to  see  him  rise  and  swim  stared, 


196  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

stared  where  he  was  gone  and  whence  he  came  not: 
then  saw  his  body  rise  —  all  lumped  up,  the  back  of  its 
shoulders,  not  its  head.  Then  watched  it,  all  lumped 
up,  slightly  below  the  surface,  bobbed  tossing  round 
the  cliff  within  the  inlet:  out  of  sight  in  the  further 
corner:  now  bumping  along  the  further  wall:  now  sub- 
merged and  out  of  view.  Now  washed  against  the 
pulpit  rock:  now  a  long  space  bumping  about  it:  now 
drawn  beyond  it:  gone. 


BOOK   FOUR 
ONE    OF    THE    OLDEST    ONES 


BOOK  FOUR 
ONE  OF  THE  OLDEST  ONES 

CHAPTER  I 

KINDNESS  WITHOUT  GRATITUDE 


In  the  place  where  Mr.  Wriford  next  found  himself 
he  first  heard  the  reverberant  thunder  of  the  sea.  He 
realised  with  sudden  terror  that  he  was  not  holding  on; 
and  as  one  starting  out  of  bad  dreams  —  but  he  had  no 
dreams  —  in  sudden  terror  he  clutched  with  both  his 
hands.  That  which  his  hands  clutched  folded  soft  and 
warm  within  their  grasp,  and  then  he  heard  a  pleasant 
voice  say: 

"  Why,  there  you  are!  You've  kept  us  waiting  a  long 
time,  you  know!  " 

He  found  he  was  in  a  bed.  A  man,  and  two  women 
who  wore  white  aprons  and  caps  and  nice  blue  dresses, 
stood  at  its  foot  and  were  smiling  at  him.  The  sun  was 
shining  on  their  faces,  and  it  was  through  windows 
behind  him  that  the  sound  of  the  sea  came.  While, 
very  puzzled,  he  watched  these  smiling  strangers,  the 
man  stepped  to  him  and  slipped  firm,  reassuring  fingers 
about  his  wrist  where  his  hand  lay  clutching  the  blue 
quilt  that  covered  him. 

199 


200  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

"  No  need  to  cling  on  like  that,  you  know,"  said  the 
man,  disengaging  his  grasp.     "  You're  all  right  now." 

Mr.  Wriford  made  one  or  two  attempts  at  speech. 
"  I  don't  —  I  don't  think  I  —  I  don't  think  —  " 

He  checked  himself  each  time.  His  voice  sounded 
so  weak  and  strange  that  he  thought  each  time  to  better 
it.  He  was  not  successful;  and  he  let  it  go  as  it  would 
with:  "  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  be  here." 

The  women  smiled  at  that,  and  the  man  said:  "  Well, 
I  don't  know  where  else  you  should  be,  I'm  sure.  You're 
very  comfortable  here." 

"  You're  just  in  the  middle  of  a  nice  sleep,  you  know," 
said  one  of  the  women,  bending  over  the  bed-rail  towards 
him.    "  I  think  I  should  just  finish  it  if  I  were  you." 

The  other  one  said :  "  Would  you  like  to  hold  my  hand 
again?  " 

''  There's  an  offer  for  you,"  said  the  man.  "  I'm 
sure  I  would." 

There  was  a  sound  of  quiet  laughter,  and  the  woman 
who  had  last  spoken  came  to  a  chair  by  Mr.  Wriford's 
side  and  sat  down  and  took  his  hand.  He  somehow 
felt  that  that  was  what  he  had  wanted,  and  he  closed 
his  eyes. 

Thereafter  he  often  —  for  moments  as  brief  as  this 
first  meeting  —  saw  the  three  again;  and  learnt  to 
smile  when  he  saw  them,  responsive  to  the  smiles  they 
always  had  for  him,  and  became  accustomed  to  their 
names  of  "  Doctor  "  and  "  Sister  "  and  "  Nurse."  It 
was  "  Nurse  "  who  sat  beside  him  and  held  his  hand. 
When  he  awoke  —  or  whatever  these  brief  glimpses  of 
these  kind  strangers  were  —  he  always  awoke  with 
that  same  startled  clutching  as  when  he  had  first  seen 
them.     If  it  was  only  the  warm  folding  stuff  that  his 


KINDNESS  WITHOUT  GRATITUDE      201 

hands  felt  he  would  cling  on  a  moment,  vacantly  terri- 
fied. When  Nurse's  hand  was  there  he  felt  all  right  at 
once  and  learnt  to  smile  a  kind  of  apology. 

Once  —  or  one  day,  he  had  no  consciousness  of  time 
—  when  he  thus  clutched  and  felt  her  hand  and  smiled, 
she  said:  "  You  shouldn't  start  like  that.  You  needn't 
now,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  do,"  he  told  her. 

She  said:   "  I  expect  you're  thinking  of  —  " 

But  Mr.  Wriford  wasn't  thinking  at  all.  He  was 
only  rather  vacantly  puzzled  when  he  saw  his  three 
kind  friends.  Beyond  that  his  mind  held  neither 
thoughts  nor  dreams. 

II 

Thought  came  suddenly  in  a  very  roundabout  way. 
Nurse  had  a  very  childish  face.  Her  skin  was  very  pink 
and  white,  and  her  eyes  very  blue,  and  there  was  some- 
thing very  childish,  almost  babyish,  about  her  soft 
brows  and  about  her  rosy  mouth.  Her  face  began  to 
have  a  place  with  Mr.  Wriford,  not  only  when  he  looked 
at  it,  but  when  he  was  sleeping.  When  he  was  sleeping, 
though,  it  had  a  different  body,  a  different  dress.  It 
thus,  in  that  different  guise,  was  with  him  when  one  day 
he  awoke  and  saw  her  bending  close  over  him,  smiling 
at  him.  He  said  at  once,  the  word  coming  to  him  with- 
out any  searching  for  it,  without  conscious  intention 
of  pronouncing  it:    "  Brida!  " 

She  said  "  What? "  Now  thoughts  were  visibly 
struggling  in  his  eyes.  Nurse  could  see  them  changing 
all  the  aspect  of  his  face,  as  though  his  eyes  were  a  pool 
up  into  which,  stirred  by  that  word,  thoughts  came 


202  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

streaming  as  stilly  depths  are  stirred  from  their  clear- 
ness by  some  fish  that  darts  along  their  floor  and  up- 
ward clouds  their  bed.  She  turned  her  head  and 
whispered  sharply:  "  Sister!  "  then  back  to  him  and 
asked  him:  "  What  a  pretty  name!  Brida,  did  you 
say?  " 

His  mind  was  rushed  long  past  the  word  that  had 
awakened  it.  First,  with  that  awakening,  had  come  the 
moment  when  first  he  had  spoken  it  —  "  I'm  going  to 
call  you  Brida!  "  St.  James's  Park;  dusk  falHng;  the 
rustle  of  October  leaves  about  their  feet;  her  flower 
face  redly  sufTused.  .  .  .  More  than  that  called  him. 
More!  In  this  sudden  tumult  of  his  brain,  these  beating 
pulses,  all  these  noises,  more,  more  than  these  demanded 
recognition;  fiercely  some  clamour  called  him  on  to 
emotions  that  wrapped  up  these,  submerged,  enveloped 
them.  There  had  been  one  in  these  emotions  that 
claimed  him  more  than  she;  there  had  been  fears,  pains, 
perils  in  them  —  ah,  here  with  a  sudden,  overwhelming 
rush  they  came!  "Wedge  in,  boy!  Wedge  m!  "  He 
that  had  called  those  words  was  swinging  on  his  hands 
—  hands  that  had  held  him!  — was  swingmg  on  his 
hands  above  the  swirUng  water  —  was  down,  was 
gone! 

Mr.  Wriford  screamed  out  shockingly:  "  You  couldn't 
swim'!    You  couldn't  swim!  " 

Sister  was  saying:  "There,  there!  Don't,  don't! 
You're  all  right  now!  You're  aU  right  now!  Look, 
Nurse  will  hold  your  hand." 

He  stared  at  her.  He  said  brokenly:  "  Let  me  alone! 
Let  me  alone!  " 

"  Shan't  Nurse  hold  your  hand?  " 

"  Please  let  me  alone." 


KINDNESS   WITHOUT  GRATITUDE      203 


III 

He  only  wanted  to  be  alone  —  alone  with  his  thoughts 
that  now  were  full  and  clear  returned  to  him  —  alone 
with  that  grotesque  figure  with  that  grotesque  name 
who  had  come  to  him  through  the  water  and  for  him  had 
gone  into  the  water  —  and  could  not  swim,  could  not 
swim! 

He  slept  and  awoke  now  and  lay  awake  in  normal 
periods.  He  smiled  at  Nurse  and  Sister  and  Doctor  but 
did  not  talk.  He  only  wanted  to  be  alone.  He  would 
He  through  the  day  for  hours  together  with  wide,  staring 
eyes,  submitting  passively  when  some  one  came  to  at- 
tend him  or  to  feed  him,  but  never  speaking.  He  only 
wanted  to  be  alone. 

Strangers  came  sometimes  —  ladies  with  flowers, 
mostly.  He  came  to  recognize  them.  They  smiled  at 
him,  and  he  smiled  responsively  at  them.  But  never 
spoke.  He  only  wanted  to  be  alone.  When  they  were 
quite  strangers  —  visitors  he  had  not  seen  before  —  he 
always  heard  Sister  bringing  them  with  the  same  words : 
"  This  is  our  very  interesting  patient.  Yes,  this  is  the 
private  ward.  It  is  rather  nice,  isn't  it?  Our  interest- 
ing patient.  Poor  fellow,  he  —  "  and  then  whispering, 
and  then  Sister  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  with  some  one 
who  smiled  and  nodded  and  said:  "  Good  morning.  I 
hope  you  are  better." 

He  never  turned  his  head  as  the  voices  announced 
approach  from  somewhere  on  his  left.  He  never  gave 
direct  thought  either  to  Sister's  familiar  words  that 
brought    them    or    to    the    whispering    that    followed. 


204  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Voices  and  persons  passed  as  it  were  at  a  very,  very 
long  distance  before  him.  He  only  wanted  to  be  alone; 
to  lie  there ;  to  think,  to  think. 

IV 

A  morning  notable  in  its  early  hours  for  much  un- 
common bustle  on  the  part  of  Sister  and  Nurse  aroused 
him  at  last  to  consciousness  that  something  was  ex- 
pected of  him  and  that  he  must  give  attention  to  where 
he  was  and  what  was  going  on  about  him.  Sister  and 
Nurse,  who  always  wore  their  cheerful  blue  cotton 
dresses  until  the  afternoon,  appeared  this  morning  in 
their  serge  gowns.  Doctor,  who  was  generally  in  a 
tweed  suit  with  cyclist  trouser  clips  at  his  ankles,  came 
in  a  frock-coat  and  wriggling  his  hands  with  the  action 
of  a  man  unaccustomed  to  having  stiff  cuffs  about  his 
wrists.  The  blue  quilt  was  exchanged  for  a  white  one 
with  roses  down  the  centre  associated  with  the  days 
when  a  harmonium  was  played  somewhere  in  the  build- 
ing and  when  the  sound  of  hymns  floated  across  Mr. 
Wriford's  thoughts. 

"  Visiting  Committee  Day  to-day,"  Sister  told  Mr. 
Wriford,  "  and  Doctor's  going  to  have  a  talk  with  you 
when  he  comes.  I  should  try  and  talk,  you  know. 
Isn't  there  a  lot  you  want  to  hear  about?  " 

This  was  a  question  Sister  often  asked  him,  but  to 
which  he  never  responded  with  more  than:  "  I'd  just 
like  to  be  alone,  Sister."  To-day  the  unusual  bustle  and 
stir  had  already  shaken  the  steady  vigil  of  his  thoughts, 
and  he  said:   "  Yes  —  yes,  thank  you,  I  think  I  would." 

Then  Doctor  in  the  frock-coat  and  with  the  wriggling 
hands  — 


KINDNESS   WITHOUT   GRATITUDE      205 

"  Well,  we'll  just  have  a  talk,"  said  Doctor,  speaking 
to  Sister  but  looking  at  Mr.  Wriford,  after  the  usual 
examination  and  questions.  And  when  Sister  had  left 
them  he  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and  began.  "  You've 
had  a  rough  passage,  you  know,"  said  Doctor.  "  But 
you're  going  on  fine  now.  I've  just  let  you  be,  but  I 
think  you  ought  to  begin  to  talk  a  bit  now.  You're 
feeling  pretty  fit?  " 

"  I'm  very  strong  really,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  I'm 
weak  now,  but  I'm  very  strong  really.  I  feel  all 
right.  I'm  sorry  I've  not  said  much.  I've  been  think- 
ing." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Doctor.  "  You've  been 
mending,  too,  while  you've  been  quiet.  Do  you  remem- 
ber everything?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember." 

"  Remember  the  coastguards  finding  you?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  remember  that." 

Doctor  laughed.  "  I  expect  you're  further  behind- 
hand than  you  think,  then.  How  long  do  you  think 
you've  been  here?  —  nearly  two  months!  " 

Mr.  Wriford  said  without  emotion:  "  Two  months. 
Will  you  tell  me  the  date,  please?  " 

"  December  —  nearly  Christmas.  It's  Christmas 
next  week.  Now  look  here,  what  about  your  friends? 
We  must  send  them  a  happy  Christmas  from  you, 
what?  " 

"  I've  no  friends,"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

"No  friends!  None  at  all?  Come,  you  must  have, 
you  know." 

"  I've  not,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Look  here,  as  soon 
as  I'm  well,  I'll  go  away.    That's  all  I  want." 

Doctor  looked  puzzled.    "  Got  a  name,  I  suppose?  " 


2o6  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  Wriford." 

"  Wriford  —  that's  funny.  I've  just  finished  reading 
again  —  you're  no  relation  to  the  author,  I  suppose? 
PhiHp  Wriford?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Jove,  he  can  write!  "  said  Doctor  with  inconsequent 
enthusiasm.  "  Read  any  of  —  ?  You're  an  educated 
man,  aren't  you?  " 

"  I'm  a  working  man,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  No,  I 
don't  read  much." 

Doctor  seemed  to  be  thinking  for  a  moment  more  of 
the  Wriford  who  wrote  than  of  the  Wriford  who  lay 
here.  Recollecting  himself  he  went  on:  "  How  did  you 
get  there  —  where  the  coastguards  found  you?  " 

"  I  was  tramping  —  looking  for  work.  I  got  cut  off. 
Will  you  tell  me,  please?    Where  is  this  place?  " 

Doctor  told  him.  This  was  Port  Rannock  —  the 
cottage  hospital.  The  coastguards  had  found  him 
wedged  up  on  the  cliff  and  brought  him  in.  Touch  and 
go  for  a  very  long  time  while  he  lay  unconscious  —  un- 
conscious nearly  a  month.    They  had  mended  his  legs 

—  one  broken,  the  knee  of  the  other  sprained  —  fever 

—  "  all  sorts  of  things,"  said  Doctor,  smiling.  *'  But 
we've  fixed  you  up  now,"  he  ended.  "  You're  on  the 
road  now  all  right,"  and  he  went  on  to  explain  the  real 
business  of  this  talk  and  of  the  Visiting  Committee's 
intentions  when  they  came.  Mr.  Wriford  was  to  be 
moved.  "  Only  a  Cottage  Hospital,  you  see,"  and  the 
bed  was  wanted.  There  had  been  a  landslip  where 
some  local  men  were  working  —  five  cases  —  the  main 
ward  simply  crowded  out.  Mr.  Wriford  must  go  to  the 
town  infirmary  over  at  Pendra  —  unless  — 

"  Sure  you  haven't  any  friends?  "  said  Doctor,  look- 


KINDNESS  WITHOUT  GRATITUDE      207 

ing  at  Mr.  Wriford  closely.    "  Quite  sure?    Committee 
here?    All  right,  Sister,  I'm  coming.    Quite  sure?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  said:  "Quite.  I  had  one.  He  was  with 
me.    He  was  drowned.    Did  they  find  —  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  coastguards  who  found  you  found  a  body 
on  the  shore  the  same  day.  Was  that  your  friend?  A 
big  man  —  stout?  " 

"  That  was  my  friend,"  said  Mr.  Wriford;  and  asked: 
"  Is  he  buried  here?  " 

•  In  the  churchyard.  We  knew  nothing  who  he  was, 
of  course.  There's  just  a  wooden  cross.  You'd  like  to 
see  it  when  you're  better.  They've  kept  his  things,  or 
at  least  a  Ust  of  them.  You  could  identify  by  them. 
Had  he  any  friends?  " 

"  Only  me.    I  think  only  me.    We  met  on  the  road." 

"  Poor  chap,"  said  Doctor.  "  Washed  off,  I  sup- 
pose? " 

"  No,  he  jumped  off.    He  couldn't  swim." 

Doctor,  who  was  going  obedient  to  Sister's  call, 
turned  and  exclaimed:   "  Jumped  off?    Why?  " 

But  Mr.  Wriford  was  lying  back  as  he  had  lain  these 
many  days,  thinking. 

V 

Visiting  Committee.  Visiting  Committee  tramped 
and  shufjfled  into  the  room  and  grouped  about  his  bed 
and  stared  at  him  —  one  clergyman  addressed  as 
Vicar,  one  very  red  gentleman  addressed  as  Major,  two 
other  men  and  two  ladies;  all  rather  fat  and  not  very 
smartly  groomed  as  though  one  rather  ran  to  seed  at 
Port  Rannock  and  didn't  bother  much  about  brushing 
one's  coat-collar  or  pressing  one's  trousers  or  —  for  the 


2o8  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

ladies  —  keeping  abreast  of  the  fashions.  All  meaning 
to  be  kind,  but  all,  after  a  while,  rather  inclined  to  be 
huffy  with  this  patient  whose  story  Doctor  had  reported, 
whom  Doctor  considered  fit  to  be  moved,  but  who 
displayed  no  gratitude  for  all  that  had  been  done  for 
him,  nor  any  sort  of  emotion  when  told  that  he 
would  be  sent  to  Pendra  Infirmary  at  the  end  of  the 
week. 

Visiting  Committee  opened  with  a  cheery  joke  on  the 
part  of  Major  at  which  everybody  smiled  towards 
the  patient,  but  to  which  the  patient  made  no  sort  of 
response.  Visiting  Committee  in  the  persons  of  Major 
and  Vicar  fired  a  few  questions  based  upon  Doctor's 
information,  at  first  kindly  and  then  rather  abrupt. 
Patient  just  lay  with  wide  eyes  that  never  turned 
towards  the  speaker  and  either  answered:  "  Yes,  thank 
you,"  or  "  No,  thank  you,"  or  did  not  answer  at  all. 
Visiting  Committee  thought  patient  ungracious  and 
said  so  to  itself  as  it  moved  away. 

"  You  ought  to  have  spoken  to  them,"  said  Nurse 
a  Uttle  reproachfully,  coming  to  him  afterwards.  "  You 
ought  just  to  have  said  a  little,  Wriford  —  that's  your 
name,  isn't  it?  I  think  they'd  have  let  you  stay  over 
Christmas  if  you  had.  Wouldn't  you  have  liked  to  stay 
with  us  for  Christmas?  " 

"  I  just  want  to  be  alone,"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  I  told  him,"  said  Nurse,  reporting  this  conversation 
to  Sister  later  in  the  day,  "  I  told  him  that  of  course  he'd 
had  a  terrible  time,  but  that  he  ought  really  to  try  not 
to  think  so  much  about  himself.  You  know,  when  I 
said  that  he  turned  his  head  right  round  to  me,  a 
thing  he  never  does,  and  stared  at  me  in  the  oddest 
way." 


KINDNESS  WITHOUT   GRATITUDE      209 


VI 

If  that  was  so  it  remained  the  only  thing  that  aroused 
him  all  the  time  he  was  at  the  Cottage  Hospital.  Even 
when  the  ambulance  came  over  from  Pendra  Infirmary, 
and  Nurse  and  Sister  tucked  him  up  in  it  and  com- 
mended him  to  the  care  of  the  Infirmary  nurse  who 
came  in  the  carriage,  even  then,  beyond  thanking  them 
quietly,  he  neither  turned  his  head  for  a  last  look  nor 
seemed  in  any  degree  distracted  from  his  steady  thoughts. 
He  just  lay  as  before,  gazing  straight  before  him  and 
thinking,  and  continued  so  to  lie  and  think  when  they 
got  him  to  bed  in  the  large  convalescent  ward  at  the 
Infirmary. 

"  Matey,"  said  a  husky  voice  from  the  bed  beside 
him,  "  Matey,  I've  got  me  portograph  in  the  Daily 
Mirror  paper.  I'm  the  oldest  sea-captain  Hving,  and 
I've  got  all  me  faculties  except  only  me  left  eye.  Can't 
you  move,  Matey?  I've  got  me  portograph  in  the 
Daily  Mirror  paper.    I'll  show  you,  Matey." 

A  sharp  call  down  the  ward.  "  Father!  Get  back 
into  bed  this  minute.  Father!  I  never  did!  What  are 
you  thinking  about?    Get  back  this  minute.  Father!  " 

The  oldest  sea-captain  living  objected  querulously: 

"  I've  got  me  portograph  in  the  Daily  Mirror  paper." 

"  Yes,  and  I'll  take  it  away  from  you  if  you  don't  lie 
still." 

"  Matey,"  said  the  oldest  sea-captain  living,  "  Matey, 
I've  got  me  portograph  in  the  Daily  Mirror  paper." 

He  lay  gazing  before  him,  just  thinking,  thinking. 


CHAPTER   II 

QUESTIONS   WITHOUT  ANSWERS 


These  occupied  Mr.  Wriford's  thoughts.  First  of 
that  sacrifice  made  for  him  when,  without  hint  of  it, 
without  so  much  as  good-bye,  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  swung 
off  his  hands  from  the  ledge  and  gone  down  into  the 
sea.     Why  made  for  him?    How? 

Doctor  had  asked  it  over  at  the  Cottage  Hospital: 

"  Jumped  off?    Why?  " 

Ah,  why?  Search  it  through  the  long  days,  ask  it  of 
the  night.  Follow,  ah,  follow  it  in  dreaming;  awake 
to  question  it  anew!  Sacrifice  made  for  him!  What 
must  have  been  suffered  in  the  determination  to  make 
it?  What  in  its  dreadful  act?  And  why,  why?  Well,  if 
no  answer  to  that,  set  it  aside  —  set  Why  aside  and  seek 
to  find  How?  How  done?  Its  courage  wherein  found, 
where? 

Why?  How?  How?  Why?  Ah,  questions  unan- 
swerable; ah,  solutions  never  to  be  found!  Doctor's 
questions  over  at  the  Cottage  Hospital;  wholly  and 
sanely  Mr.  Wriford's  questions,  there  as  he  lay  gazing 
before  him  in  the  little  room  at  Port  Rannock,  here  as 
he  lay  in  the  convalescent  ward  at  Pendra  Infirmary. 
Why?  How?  How?  Why?  Wholly  and  sanely  his 
by  day  and  day  succeeding  day,  by  night  and  night 


QUESTIONS  WITHOUT  ANSWERS        211 

succeeding  night.  Wholly  and  sanely  his  —  coldly 
his. 

Coldly:  in  time,  and  in  the  ceaseless  effort  to  answer 
them  as  strength  returned  and  as  he  was  encouraged  to 
get  up  and  walk  the  ward,  he  found  himself  thinking, 
nay,  forced  himself  to  think,  of  Mr.  Puddlebox  without 
emotion:  without  emotion  watching  that  very  scene 
upon  the  ledge,  that  drop  into  the  water,  that  lumped-up 
body  bobbing  round  the  cliff.  For  him!  Was  he  worth 
it?  No,  not  worthy  it  in  any  degree.  Had  he  done 
anything  to  deserve  it?  He  had  done  nothing.  Nar- 
rowly, coldly,  he  searched  every  moment  of  his  days  in 
Mr.  Puddlebox's  company.  There  was  not  one  re- 
vealed a  single  action,  even  a  single  thought,  that 
might  give  claim  to  such  a  sacrifice.  Far  from  it!  Con- 
sciously and  actively  and  intentionally  he  had  lived  in 
all  that  period  for  himself  alone.  Till  then  he  had 
devoted  all  his  life  to  others.  Through  all  the  time 
thereafter  it  had  been  his  aim  to  Hve  for  himself  —  to 
care  for  no  one's  feelings,  himself  to  have  no  feelings: 
simply  to  do  things,  simply  to  inflict  upon  his  body 
whatsoever  recklessness  his  mind  conceived:  through 
his  body  experience  it,  in  his  mind  never  to  be  touched 
by  it.  Whatever  suffering  it  had  caused  him,  gleefully 
he  had  rehshed.  But  Mr.  Puddlebox  also  it  had  caused 
suffering  and  discomfort,  and  Mr.  Puddlebox  had  not 
relished  it  at  all:  very  much  the  reverse.  What  claim 
then  had  he  on  Mr.  Puddlebox's  affections? 

Affections!  What  had  affections  to  do  with  such  a 
case?  Admit  affections  —  God  alone  knew  why,  but 
admit  that  the  companionship  of  their  many  days 
together,  their  many  adventures,  experiences,  had 
aroused  common  affection  in  Mr.  Puddlebox.     Admit 


212  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

that  you  scarcely  could  live  with  a  man  day  by  day, 
night  by  night,  hour  by  hour,  without  of  two  results 
one:  hating  him  and  leaving  him,  or  becoming  accus- 
tomed to  him  and  accepting  him.  That  might  arouse 
affections,  just  as  affections  might  be  aroused  by  any 
inanimate  thing  always  carried:  a  stick,  a  penknife,  a 
comfortable  old  coat.  Admit  affections  then:  what 
had  affection  to  do  with  accepting  that  dreadful  death 

—  or  any  death?  That  was  more  than  affection.  That 
was  as  much  more  than  affection  as  a  mountain  a  hill, 
an  ocean  a  stream.  That  was  love:  nay,  that  was  love's 
very  apotheosis.  Ridiculous,  outrageous  to  imagine  for 
himself  in  Mr.  Puddlebox  any  love :  how  much  more  pre- 
posterous love  in  that  degree!    Preposterous,  ridiculous 

—  then  why?  Leave  it  —  ah,  leave  it,  leave  it,  and  come 
to  How.  Think  of  it  coldly.  Divorce  emotion  from  its 
searching  and  coldly  examine  How.  How  had  Mr. 
Puddlebox  gone  to  such  a  death?  What  found  within 
himself,  what  quality  possessed,  to  swing  him  off  his 
hands  and  go,  and  drown,  and  die?  Courage?  Be 
cold,  be  cruel,  be  sane!  Courage?  Puddlebox  had  no 
courage.  Carelessness  of  Hfe?  He  was  very  fond  of 
life.  Look  at  the  man !  Remember  him,  not  as  he  died, 
but  in  his  grotesque  personality  as  he  lived.  Consider 
his  idle,  slothful  habit  of  mind  and  of  body.  Recall  his 
dislike  of  work,  of  any  hardship.  Look  at  his  ideal  of 
comfort  —  to  shuffle  about  the  countryside  doing  noth- 
ing; to  have  food  to  eat;  to  get  comfortably  drunk. 
How  in  such  character  the  courage  to  die  so  suddenly, 
so  horribly?  How?  Lo,  How  was  more  impossible 
than  Why.  Nay,  How  was  Why.  What  but  supremest 
love  could  have  invested  him  with  strength  to  go  to  such 
a  death?    What  but  divinest  love  to  conceive  of  such  a 


QUESTIONS  WITHOUT  ANSWERS        213 

sacrifice?  And  love  was  out  of  consideration.  Useless 
to  try  to  delude  these  questions  with:  "  He  must  have 
loved  me."  Clear  that  he  could  not  have.  Then  why? 
Then  done  by  possession  of  what  attribute?  Was  there 
some  quality  in  Hfe  unknown  to  Mr.  Wriford? 

II 

Ah,  was  there?  That  same  question,  a  barrier  in- 
surmountable, a  void  dark,  boundless,  unfathomable, 
similar  to  that  which  ended  his  questioning  of  Mr. 
Puddlebox's  sacrifice,  ended  also  his  searching  along 
another  train  of  thought  which,  as  he  grew  stronger, 
more  and  more  closely  occupied  him  —  inquiry  relative 
to  his  own  condition.  He  had  had  a  shot  at  life.  He 
had  cast  aside  every  bond,  every  scruple,  every  fear, 
every  habit,  which  formerly  —  as  he  had  thought  — 
had  tied  him  up  in  misery.  That  phase  was  over.  It 
attracted  no  more.  He  had  longed  to  do  it;  he  had 
done  it.  What  profit?  He  was  very  weak.  He  found 
that  there  had  passed  out  of  him  with  the  vigour  of  his 
body  the  violent  desire  to  make  his  body  do  and  feel  and 
suffer.  Vigour  would  return.  He  would  grow  stronger. 
Daily  already  he  was  regaining  strength.  But  that 
desire  never  would  return.  It  had  been  exorcised.  It 
had  been  fulfilled.  When  he  was  in  London,  when  he 
was  in  all  the  tumult  of  that  London  life,  he  had  thought 
—  God !  if  only  he  could  break  away  from  it  all !  break 
away  and  rest  his  mind  and  bring  the  labour  of  living 
from  his  head  to  his  hands,  from  his  brain  to  his  body! 
He  had  imagined  his  hands  hard,  his  body  sweating,  his 
mind  free,  and  he  had  thought:  "  God,  God,  there,  there, 
could  I  but  get  at  it,  lies,  not  the  labour  of  living,  but  the 


214  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

joy  of  living!  "  Well,  he  had  got  at  it.  He  had  done 
it.  Horny  and  hard  he  had  made  his  hands;  sore  and 
asweat  he  had  wearied  his  body.  What  profit?  He  had 
wanted  to  do  things  —  things  arduous,  reckless,  violent. 
He  had  done  them.  What  benefit?  He  had  wanted  to 
care  for  nobody  and  nothing,  to  mind  nobody's  feelings, 
to  have  none  himself.  He  had  done  it.  He  had  wan- 
tonly insulted,  he  had  wilfully  outraged;  he  had  mas- 
tered fear,  he  had  stifled  moral  consciousness.  What 
virtue?  Look  back  upon  it!  That  which  he  had  de- 
sired to  do  he  had  done.  He  had  seized  the  course 
where  labour  of  living  should  be  made  joy  of  living.  He 
had  run  it  to  the  uttermost.  Mad  dog  —  he  had  lived, 
as  he  had  wished  to  live,  a  mad  dog  life,  impervious  to 
all  sensation,  moral  or  physical.  No  qualm,  no  scruple, 
no  thought,  no  fear  had  checked  him.  He  had  drunk 
of  it  full  and  drunk  of  it  deep.  What  profit?  Soul,  soul, 
look  back  with  me  and  see  where  we  have  come !  In  the 
old  life  never  free.  In  the  new  life  utterly  free.  In  the 
old  responsible.  Utterly  irresponsible  in  the  new.  In 
the  old  tied  up  —  tied  up,  that  had  been  his  cry.  In  the 
new  released.  What  profit?  In  the  old  assured  that 
happiness  lay  in  the  new.  Now  the  new  tried,  and 
happiness  still  to  seek  —  nay,  happiness  more  lost,  more 
deeply  hidden  than  ever  before.  Then  it  had  seemed  to 
lie  in  freedom;  now  freedom  had  been  searched  and 
it  was  not.  Where  then?  Was  there  some  secret  of 
happiness  that  he  had  missed? 

Suppose  he  were  strong  again.  Imagine  the  few  weeks 
passed  that  would  return  him  his  strength  and  let  him 
leave  this  place.  Would  he  go  back  to  the  wild  things, 
the  reckless  things,  the  schooling  of  his  body  by  ex- 
posure to  pain,  to  hunger,  to  fatigue?    No,  for  it  had 


QUESTIONS  WITHOUT  ANSWERS        215 

been  tried.  No,  for  he  had  tasted  it  and  was  nothing 
attracted  to  taste  of  it  again.  Was  he  afraid  of  its 
hurts?  No,  impervious  to  them,  minding  them  not  at 
all.  But  he  had  exulted  in  them,  he  had  been  exalted 
by  them.  He  had  believed  they  were  leading  somewhere. 
Ah,  here  he  was  looking  back  upon  them,  and  he  knew 
that  they  led  nowhere.  He  had  come  through  them, 
and  he  found  himself  come  through  empty.  They  might 
fall  about  him  again  when  he  was  strong  and  went  out 
to  them  —  they  might  fall  about  him,  but  they  would 
arouse  nothing  in  him.  He  might  once  again  challenge 
them  and  cause  them  furiously  to  assail  him.  He 
would  know  while  he  did  so  and  while  they  scourged 
him  that  they  were  barren  of  virtue,  empty,  dry  as 
ashes,  profitless,  containing  nothing,  conceahng  nothing. 
Where  stood  he?  Where?  Look,  in  the  old  days  he 
had  been  slave  of  his  mind,  hounded  by  his  brain.  He 
had  cast  that  away.  He  had  escaped  from  it.  Look, 
in  the  new  he  had  turned  for  joy  of  living  to  his  body 
and  had  mastered  his  body  and  all  his  fears  and  all  his 
thoughts.  He  had  lived  through  two  lives  —  Hfe  that 
was  not  his  own  but  given  to  others;  life  that  was  all 
his  own  and  to  none  but  himself  belonged.  Fruitless 
both.  Was  there  some  secret  of  happiness  that  he  had 
missed? 

Ill 

Ah,  was  there?  This,  as  the  new  year  broke  its  bonds, 
displaced  all  other  thoughts,  became  Mr.  Wriford's  sole 
obsession.  Was  there  something  in  life  that  he  had 
missed?  He  was  able  now  to  take  exercise  daily  in  the 
Infirmary  grounds.    He  would  go  on  these  occasions  to 


2i6  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

its  furthest  recesses.  His  desire  was  to  escape  the 
other  inmates  of  the  convalescent  ward;  to  be  alone; 
to  get  away  where  in  solitude  he  could  pursue  the  ques- 
tion that  ceaselessly  he  revolved:  Was  there  some 
secret  of  happiness  that  he  had  missed?  He  brought, 
he  could  bring,  no  train  of  sequent  reasoning  to  its 
investigation.  He  merely  brooded  upon  it.  He  merely 
reviewed  life  as  he  had  known  it,  saw  how  it  had 
crumbled  at  every  step,  and  how  it  crumbled  anew  at 
every  re-examination  of  it,  and  wondered  vaguely  was 
there  some  quality  might  have  been  brought  into  it  to 
cement  it  into  a  stable  bridge  that  would  have  borne 
him  cheerily  upraised  upon  it,  something  that  might 
yet  be  found  —  something  that  he  had  missed?  And 
often,  as  his  review  carried  him  searching  along  the 
period  of  Mr.  Puddlebox,  wondered  vaguely  whether 
the  final  question  of  that  sacrifice  was  related  to  this 
final  question  of  himself.  Had  Mr.  Puddlebox  some 
quaHty  unknown  to  him?  Was  there  something  in  life 
that  he  himself  had  missed?  Were  the  two  questions 
one  question?  Was  there  one  answer  that  should  supply 
both  answers? 

IV 

Daily,  walking  in  the  grounds  or  watching  from  the 
windows,  he  watched  the  new  year  struggling  from  her 
bonds.  He  came  to  greet  her  in  all  her  different  moods 
as  a  sentient  creature  —  to  envisage  her  as  one  in  like 
situation  to  his  own.  She  was  struggling  for  freedom 
—  nay,  not  for  freedom,  but  for  her  own  possession. 
The  old  year  had  her.  In  winter's  guise  he  held  her. 
Sometimes  she  escaped  him,  sometimes  she  was  laughing 


QUESTIONS  WITHOUT  ANSWERS       217 

all  about  and  everywhere,  a  young  thing,  a  wild  thing, 
a  timid  thing.  For  three  days  together  she  would  so 
reign,  smiling,  fluttering,  free.  Then  winter  snatched 
her  back,  overlaid  her,  jealously  crushed  her  in  his  iron 
bonds.  Sometimes  she  wept.  Sometimes  here  and  there 
she  ran  and  laid  her  pretty  trinkets  on  branch  and 
bough  and  hedge.  Winter  would  out  and  catch  her, 
drag  her  away,  despoil  all  her  little  traces.  Some- 
times she  fought  him.  Sometimes  as  she  smiled,  as  she 
danced,  as  she  bedecked  herself,  winter  would  come 
shouting,  blustering,  threatening.  A  bonny  sight  to 
see  her  hold  her  own!  Bolder  she  grew,  weaker  he.  He 
had  his  moments.  She  sulked,  she  cried,  she  pouted, 
then  laughingly  she  tricked  him.  Here  he  would  catch 
her.  Look,  there  she  was  away !  Here  tear  up  her  handi- 
work: look,  there  her  fingers  ran!  His  legions  sank  ex- 
hausted: she  laughed  and  called  her  own.  Warmly, 
timidly,  fragrantly  her  breezes  moved  about  her; 
greenly,  freshly,  radiantly  she  smiled  to  their  caress. 
They  piped,  she  danced.  She  was  out,  she  was  free. 
She  was  high  upon  the  hillside,  she  was  deep  within 
the  valley,  she  was  painting  in  the  hedgerows,  she  was 
piping  in  the  trees. 

Where  aimed  she?  Ah,  this  was  but  the  budding! 
Soon,  soon,  supreme,  content,  mistress  of  all  and  of 
herself  she'd  reign  through  starry  nights,  through  stead- 
fast, silent  days.  Peace  she  pursued,  serenity,  con- 
tent. Peace  she  would  win.  Mr.  Wriford  turned  from 
her  when  thus  far  his  thoughts  had  followed  her.  Daily 
before  him,  petulant  she  struggled.  He  had  struggled. 
Soon  she'd  be  free.  He  had  been  free.  Then  pressed 
she  on  to  happiness.    He? 

Was  there  some  secret  of  happiness  he  had  missed? 


CHAPTER  III 

CRACKJAW  NAME   FOR   MR.   WRIFORD 


Stronger  now.  He  was  left  very  much  alone  by  the 
other  inmates  of  the  convalescent  ward,  and  that  was 
what  he  wished.  Strange  folk  themselves,  some  with 
odd  ways,  some  with  ugly,  they  accepted  strangeness 
in  others  as  a  proper  qualification  for  those  greater  com- 
forts which  made  this  department  of  the  workhouse  a 
place  highly  desirable.  The  one  common  sympathy 
among  them  was  to  present  their  several  ailments  as 
obstinately  and  as  alarmingly  as  possible,  and  they 
respected  the  endeavour  in  one  another.  Except  when 
order  of  dismissal  and  return  to  the  workhouse  came 
among  them.  The  victim  upon  whom  the  blow  fell 
would  then  most  shamelessly  round  upon  his  mates  in 
a  manner  that  filled  the  ward  with  indignant  alarm  and 
protestation. 

"  Me  quite  strong!  "  the  unhappy  victim  would  cry. 
"  What  about  old  George  there?  He's  stronger  than 
me.  What  about  old  Tom?  What  about  Mr.  Harris? 
What  about  Captain  Peter?  Shamming!  They're  all 
shamming!  Ask  old  George  what  he  told  me  yesterday. 
Never  felt  better  in  his  life,  he  told  me.  Ask  old  Tom. 
Can't  get  enough  to  eat  'e's  that  'arty,  he  says.  Me! 
It's  a  public  scandal.  It's  a  public  scandal  this  ward 
is.    Taking  out  a  dying  man,  that's  what  you're  doing, 

218 


CRACKJAW  NAME  FOR  MR.  WRIFORD  219 

and  leaving  a  pack  of  shammers!  Look  at  Mr.  Graggs 
there!  Look  at  him.  Ever  see  a  sick  man  look  like 
that?    Public  scandal!    Public  —  " 

Outraged  victim  led  protesting  away.  Horrified  con- 
valescents dividing  their  energies  between  smiling 
wanly,  as  though  at  the  point  of  death  and  therefore 
charitable  to  victim's  ravings,  and  protesting  volubly 
at  his  infamous  aspersions. 

Mr.  Wriford,  only  wishing  to  be  left  alone,  escaped 
these  bitter  attacks  from  injured  victims  just  as  for  a 
long  time  he  escaped  from  matron  and  doctors  the  form 
of  attention  which  aroused  alarm  in  the  ward.  He 
mixed  with  his  fellow-convalescents  not  at  all,  and  this 
aloofness,  in  a  community  where  garrulity  on  the  sub- 
ject of  aches  and  pains  and  bad  weather  and  discon- 
tent with  food  was  the  established  order,  earned  him  in 
full  the  solitude  which  alone  he  desired.  Its  interruption 
was  most  endangered  in  those  hours  of  wet  days,  and 
in  the  evenings,  when,  out  of  bed  and  dressed,  the  con- 
valescents were  cooped  up  within  the  ward.  At  the 
least  there  was  always  then  the  risk  of  being  caught  by 
the  oldest  sea-captain  living  with  his  ceaseless:  "  Matey! 
Matey,  I've  got  me  portograph  in  the  Daily  Mirror 
paper!  "  and  sometimes  the  descent  upon  him  of  some 
other  infirm  old  gentleman  who,  worsted  and  enraged 
in  some  battle  of  ailments  with  cronies,  would  espy 
Mr.  Wriford  seated  remote  and  alone  and  bear  down 
upon  him  with  his  cargo  of  ills. 

II 

To  escape  these  attentions  Mr.  Wriford  learnt  to 
simulate  absorption  in  one  of  the  out-of-date  illustrated 


220  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

weekly  papers  with  which  for  its  intellectual  benefit  the 
ward  was  supplied.  No  thought  that  these  papers  were 
once  a  part  of  his  daily  life,  himself  a  very  active  factor 
in  theirs,  ever  stirred  him  as  he  turned  the  pages  or 
gazed  with  unseeing  eyes  upon  them.  His  fingers  turned 
the  pages:  his  mind,  in  search  of  Was  there  some  secret 
of  happiness  he  had  missed?  revolved  the  leaves  of 
retrospection  that  might  disclose  it  —  but  never  did. 
His  head  would  bend  intensely  above  a  picture  or  a 
column  of  letterpress:  his  eyes,  not  what  was  printed 
saw,  but  saw  himself  as  he  had  been,  somehow  missing 
—  what? 

Seclusion  by  this  means  for  his  searching  after  his 
problem  brought  him  one  day  to  an  occurrence  that  did 
actually  concentrate  his  attention  on  the  printed  page 
before  his  eyes  —  a  page  of  illustrated  matter  that  con- 
cerned himself.  A  new  batch  of  weekly  periodicals  had 
been  placed  in  the  ward  —  dated  some  two  months 
back.  He  took  one  from  the  batch,  opened  it  at  random, 
and  seated  himself,  with  eyes  fixed  listlessly  upon  it, 
as  far  as  might  be  from  the  gossiping  groups  gathered 
about  the  fires  at  each  end  of  the  ward.  Absorbed  more 
deeply  than  usual  in  his  thoughts,  he  carelessly  allowed 
it  to  be  apparent  that  the  journal  was  not  holding  his 
attention.  It  lay  upon  his  knee.  His  eyes  wandered 
from  its  direction. 

"  Matey,"  said  the  oldest  sea-captain  living,  sud- 
denly springing  upon  him,  "  Matey,  I  got  me  porto- 
graph  in  the  Daily  Mirror  paper.  You  ain't  never  'ad  a 
fair  look  at  it,  Matey." 

"  Not  now,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.    "  I'm  reading." 

He  took  up  the  paper  that  had  rested  on  his  knees; 
but  the  oldest  sea-captain  Uving  placed  upon  it  his 


CRACKJAW  NAME  FOR  MR.   WRIFORD    221 

cherished  cutting  from  the  Daily  Mirror  paper.  "  Well, 
read  that,  Matey,"  said  the  oldest  sea-captain  living. 
"  That's  better  than  any  bit  you've  got  there.  Look, 
Matey.  Look  what  it  says."  He  indicated  with  a 
trembling  finger  the  smudged  and  thumbed  lettering 
beneath  the  smudged  picture  and  read  aloud:  "  '  One 
of  the  most  remarkable  men  to  be  found  in  our  work- 
usses  —  those  re —  those  rep — -  those  reposetteries  of 
strange  'uman  flotsam  —  is  Cap'n  Ilenery  Peters,  the 
oldest  sea-captain  living.'  That's  me,  Matey.  See 
my  face?    '  Cap'n  Henery  —  '  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "Yes.  That's  fine," 
and  took  up  the  cutting  and  handed  it  back. 

"  You  ain't  finished  reading  of  it,"  protested  the 
oldest  sea-captain  living. 

"  I  have.  I  read  quicker  than  you.  I'll  read  it  again 
in  a  minute.  I  just  want  to  finish  this.  I'm  in  the 
middle  of  it." 

The  oldest  sea-captain  living  protested  anew.  "  You 
wasn't  reading  when  I  come  up  to  you.  I  saw  you 
wasn't." 

"  I  was  thinking.    I'd  just  stopped  to  think." 

It  was  an  unfortunate  excuse,  arousing  a  fellow 
sympathy  in  the  oldest  sea-captain  living.  "  Why, 
they  do  make  you  think,  some  of  the  words  they  writes, 
don't  they?  "  said  he.  "  Look  at  my  bit  —  re —  rep — 
reposetteries  —  there's  one  for  yer.  What's  a  re —  rep — 
reposettery?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Well,  I  don't  neither.  Matey,"  said  the  oldest  sea- 
captain  living,  "  an'  I  don't  suppose  that  young  chap 
as  wrote  it  did."  He  pointed  to  the  page  upon  which 
Mr.  Wriford  seemed  to  be  engaged.     "  It's  a  cracker, 


222  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

Matey.  You  got  some  crackers  there  too  by  the  look 
of  it."  He  put  his  finger  on  a  word  of  title  lettering 
that  ran  in  bold  type  across  the  top.  "  W-r-i-f-o-r-d," 
he  spelt.  "  That's  a  crackjaw  name  for  yer.  What's 
it  spell,  Matey?  " 

But  Mr.  Wriford,  attracted  by  the  crackjaw  name 
thus  indicated,  was  now  giving  a  real  attention  to  the 
paper.  The  oldest  sea-captain  Hving  concentrated  upon 
his  own  beloved  features  in  the  Daily  Mirror  paper, 
and,  engrossed  upon  them,  drifted  away. 

Mr.  Wriford  read  the  headline,  boldly  printed: 

"  The  Wriford  Boom:   Another  Brilliant  Novel." 

It  was  a  review  —  a  remarkable  eulogy  —  of  the 
novel  he  had  finished  and  deposited  with  his  agent 
shortly  before  that  sudden  impulse  on  the  Thames 
embankment.  It  was  embellished  with  photographs 
of  himself,  with  reproductions  of  the  covers  of  his  two 
earUer  novels,  with  inscriptions  announcing  the  pro- 
digious number  of  editions  into  which  they  seemed 
to  have  gone,  and  with  extracts  of  "  exquisite "  or 
"  thought-provoking  "  or  "  witty  "  passages  set  in 
frames.  Beneath  that  flaming  "The  Wriford  Boom: 
Another  Brilliant  Novel  "  was  a  long  sub-title  in  small 
black  type  epitomizing  all  that  lay  beneath  it.  Mr. 
Wriford  read  it  curiously.  In  part  it  dealt  with  what 
was  described  in  inverted  commas  as  his  "  disappear- 
ance." Evidently  much  on  that  head  was  general 
knowledge.  The  writer  scamped  details  leading  up  to 
his  main  point,  the  Wriford  Boom  and  the  contribution 
thereto  of  a  brilliant  new  novel,  with  many  a  plausible 
"  Of  course."    The  mystery  of  the  disappearance  which 


CRACKJAW  NAME  FOR  MR.  WRIFORD    223 

was  "  of  course  "  no  longer  a  mystery;  Mr.  Wriford 
had  "  of  course  "  been  seen  by  a  friend  leaving  Charing 
Cross  by  the  Continental  train  a  few  days  after  his 
disappearance;  later  he  had  "  of  course  "  been  seen  in 
Paris,  and  he  was  now  "  of  course  "  living  somewhere 
on  the  Continent  in  complete  seclusion.  The  writer 
contrasted  this  modest  escape  from  lionisation  with  the 
conduct  of  other  authors  who  "  of  course  "  need  not  be 
named,  and  proceeded  to  tremendous  figures  of  book- 
sales,  and  of  advance  orders  for  the  present  volume, 
making  his  point  finally  with  "  A  boom  which,  if  started 
by  the  sensational  '  disappearance,'  has  served  to  make 
almost  every  section  of  the  general  public  share  in  the 
rare  literary  quality  enjoyed  by  —  comparatively  speak- 
ing —  the  few  who  recognized  Mr.  Wriford's  genius  at 
the  outset." 

Mr.  Wriford  read  it  all  curiously,  with  a  sense  of  com- 
plete detachment.  He  looked  at  the  photographs  of 
himself,  recalling  the  circumstances  in  which  each  had 
been  taken  and  feeling  himself  somehow  as  unrecog- 
nisably different  from  them  as  the  convalescent  ward 
was  different  from  the  surroundings  shown  by  the 
camera.  He  read  the  review  of  the  new  book,  especially 
the  passages  quoted  from  it,  recalling  the  thoughts  with 
which  each  had  been  written  and  feeling  them  somehow 
to  have  belonged,  not  to  himself,  but  to  some  other 
person  who  had  communicated  them  to  him  and  now 
had  committed  them  to  print.  He  reckoned  idly  and 
roughly  the  royalties  that  were  represented  by  the 
prodigious  figures  of  sales,  and  realised  that  a  very  great 
deal  of  money  must  be  awaiting  him  in  his  agent's  hands. 
But  the  thought  of  the  money  —  the  positive  wealth  to 
which  it  amounted  —  stirred  him  no  more  than  the 


224  THE'  CLEAN  HEART 

glowing  terms  of  his  appreciation  in  critical  and  popular 
opinion.  It  aroused  only  this  thought:  the  memory 
that,  in  the  days  represented  by  those  photographs, 
money  then  also  had  given  him  no  smallest  satisfaction. 
He  had  had  no  use  for  it.  He  had  had  no  time  to  use 
it.  So  with  success  —  no  interest  in  it,  no  time  to  enjoy 
it;  always  driven,  always  driving  to  do  something  else, 
to  catch  up.  Curious  to  think  that  once  he  would  have 
sparkled  over  it,  rejoiced  in  the  money,  thrilled  in  the 
triumph.  Young  Wriford  would  have  —  Young  Wriford, 
that  personality  now  immeasurably  remote,  whom  once 
he  had  been.  Why  would  Young  Wriford  have  de- 
lighted? Ah,  Young  Wriford  was  happy.  Why?  What 
knew  he,  what  possessed  he,  in  those  far  distant  years, 
that  somehow  had  been  lost,  that  he  had  thought,  by 
breaking  away  and  not  caring  for  anything  or  anybody, 
to  recover,  that,  now  the  experiment  was  over,  showed 
itself  more  deeply  lost  than  ever  before?  Where  and 
how  had  that  attribute  of  happiness  —  whatever  it 
was  —  been  dropped?  .  .  . 

Lo,  he  was  back  again  where  the  oldest  sea-captain 
living  had  found  him  and  had  interrupted  him,  the 
paper  fallen  on  his  knees,  his  eyes  gazing  blankly  before 
him:  was  there  some  secret  of  happiness  he  had  missed? 

As  he  mused  he  was  again  disturbed  —  this  time  by 
the  Matron.  It  was  a  Board  day,  she  told  him,  and 
he  was  to  go  before  the  guardians  at  once.  The  guard- 
ians were  sitting  late  and  had  reached  his  case;  ordina- 
rily it  would  not  have  come  up  till  next  fortnight;  after 
receiving  the  Medical  Officer's  report  they  attended 
personally  to  all  convalescent  ward  cases. 

The  Matron  gave  Mr.  Wriford  this  information  as 
she  conducted  him  to  the  Board-room  door.    "  It'll  be 


CRACK  JAW  NAME  FOR  MR.  WRIFORD    225 

good-bye,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him  kindly  as  she  left 
him  —  he  was  different  from  the  generaUty  of  her 
patients.  "  It'll  be  good-bye.  You're  passed  out  of  the 
C.  W." 


CHAPTER  IV 

CLURK  FOR  MR.   MASTER 


Guardians  sat  at  a  long,  green-covered  table.  Large 
plates  of  sandwiches  and  large  cups  of  coffee  were  sup- 
porting them  against  the  strain  of  their  labours  in  sitting 
late,  and  they  regarded  Mr.  Wriford  with  eyes  that 
stared  from  above  busily  engaged  mouths.  A  different 
class  of  men-  from  the  members  of  the  Cottage  Hospital 
Committee  and,  like  the  Matron,  accustomed  to  a  class 
of  pauper  different  from  Mr.  Wriford. 

His  difference  was  advertised  in  his  youth  —  a 
quality  very  much  abhorred  by  the  honest  guardians 
as  speaking  to  shocking  idleness  —  and  in  the  refinement 
of  his  voice  and  speech  —  a  peculiarity  that  lent  itself 
to  banter  and  was  used  for  such. 

One  addressed  as  Mr.  Chairman  first  spoke  him. 

"  Well,  you've  had  a  good  fat  thing  out  of  us,"  said 
Mr.  Chairman,  himself  presenting  the  appearance  of 
having  made  a  moderately  fat  thing  cut  of  his  duties, 
and  speaking  with  one  half  of  a  large  sandwich  in  his 
hand  and  the  other  half  in  his  mouth.  "  Best  part  of 
three  months'  board  and  lodging  in  slap-up  style.  Num- 
ber One.  Diet  and  luxuries  ad  lib.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it?    Are  you  going  to  pay  for  it?  " 

This  was  obviously  a  very  humourous  remark  to  make 

226 


CLURK  FOR  MR.   MASTER  227 

to  a  pauper,  and  it  received  at  once  the  gratifying 
tribute  of  large  sandwichy  grins  and  chuckles  all  round 
the  table. 

"  I  call  upon  Mr.  Chairman,"  said  one  grin,  "  to  tell 
this  gentleman  exactly  what  he  has  cost  the  parish  in 
pounds,  shillings  and  pence  sterling." 

This,  by  its  reception,  was  equally  humourous,  one 
Guardian  being  so  overcome  by  the  wit  of  "  gentleman  " 
and  "  sterling  "  as  to  choke  over  his  coffee  and  rise  and 
expectorate  in  the  fire. 

"  Sixteen,  fourteen,  six,"  said  Mr.  Chairman,  "  and 
as  a  point  of  order  I  call  Mr.  Master's  attention  to  the 
fact  that  another  time  a  spittoon  had  better  be  provided 
for  the  gentleman  as  has  just  needed  the  use  of  one." 

The  Workhouse  Master  who  stood  beside  Mr.  Chair- 
man having  contributed  obsequiously  to  the  merriment 
and  banter  aroused  by  this  sparkle  of  humour,  Mr. 
Chairman  loudly  called  the  meeting  to  order  and  again 
taxed  Mr.  Wriford  with  his  debt  to  the  parish. 

"  Sixteen,  fourteen,  six,"  said  Mr.  Chairman.  "  Can 
you  pay  it?  I  lay  you've  never  earned  so  much  money 
in  all  your  life,  so  now  then?  " 

In  the  days  of  wild  escapade  with  Mr.  Puddlebox, 
Mr.  Wriford 's  thoughts  —  all  in  some  form  of  passion 
—  worked  very  rapidly.  Now,  as  though  they  had  learnt 
their  gait  from  his  slow  revolving  of  his  ceaseless  ques- 
tion, they  worked  very  slowly;  and  when  he  spoke  he 
spoke  very  slowly.  His  mind  went  slowly  to  the  ac- 
count he  had  been  reading  of  himself  in  the  illustrated 
paper.  He  thought  of  the  large  sum  that  awaited  him 
in  his  agent's  hands,  and  he  thought,  with  an  impulse 
of  the  furious  Puddlebox  days,  of  the  glorious  sensation 
he  would  arouse  by  bellowing  at  these  uncouth  creatures : 


228  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

"  Earned  so  much!  Well,  I  daresay  I  could  buy  up  the 
lot  of  you,  you  ugly-looking  lot  of  pigs,  and  have  as 
much  over  again!  "  But  he  allowed  the  impulse  to  drift 
away.  He  had  done  that  sort  of  thing:  to  what  profit? 
He  might  do  it.  He  might  follow  it  up  by  stampeding 
about  the  room,  hurling  sandwiches  at  Guardians  and 
shouting  with  laughter  at  the  amazement  and  con- 
fusion while  he  did  as  much  damage  as  he  could  before 
he  was  overpowered.  What  profit?  The  excitement 
would  pass  and  be  over.  It  would  lead  to  nothing  that 
would  satisfy  him.  It  would  bring  him  nowhere  that 
would  rest  him.  He  had  done  that  sort  of  thing.  It 
attracted  him  no  more.  Should  he  answer  them  seri- 
ously —  explain  who  he  was,  request  that  a  telegram 
should  be  sent  to  his  agent,  go  back  to  his  old  life,  take 
up  the  success  that  awaited  him?  What  profit?  That, 
too,  he  had  tried.  That,  too,  would  lead  him  nowhere, 
bring  him  no  nearer  to  his  only  desire.  He  imagined 
himself  back  in  London,  back  in  his  own  place  once 
more,  enjoying  the  comforts  he  had  earned,  travelling, 
amusing  himself,  settling  to  work  again.  What  profit? 
Enjoyment!  Amusement!  He  would  find  none.  They 
and  all  that  they  meant  lay  hidden  beneath  some  secret 
of  fife  that  must  be  found  ere  ever  he  could  touch  them 
—  something  for  which  always  and  always  he  would 
be  searching,  something  he  had  missed.  He  had  tried 
it.  It  had  no  attraction  for  him:  rather  it  had  a  thou- 
sand explanations,  worries,  demands,  at  whose  very 
thought  he  shuddered.  Let  him  drift.  Let  him  go 
wheresoever  any  chance  tide  might  take  him.  Let  him 
be  alone  to  think,  to  think,  and  haply  to  discover. 

"  Well?  "  said  Mr.  Chairman. 

"  If  you  think  I'm  fit  to  go,  I'll  go  at  once,"  said  Mr. 


CLURK  FOR  MR.   MASTER  229 

Wriford.  "  I'm  very  grateful  for  all  that  has  been  done 
for  me." 

Mr.  Chairman  reckoned  that  he  ought  to  be. 
"  Where'll  you  go?  "  demanded  Mr.  Chairman. 

"  Anywhere." 

"  What'll  you  do?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

Mr.  Chairman  thumped  the  table  in  expression  of 
one  of  the  many  trials  that  Guardians  had  to  bear. 
"  What's  the  sense  o'  that  talk?  "  demanded  Mr.  Chair- 
man. "  Anywhere!  Don't  know!  That's  the  way  with 
all  you  chaps.  Get  outside  and  pretend  you're  starving 
and  pitch  a  fine  tale  about  being  turned  out  and  get 
rate-payers  jawing  or  magistrates  preachin'  us  a  lec- 
ture.   We've  been  there  before,  my  beauty." 

Chorus  of  endorsement  from  fellow-Guardians  who 
growl  angrily  at  Mr.  Wriford  as  though  they  had  indeed 
been  there  before  and  saw  in  Mr.  Wriford  the  visible 
embodiment  of  their  misfortune. 

"  Well,  what?  "  said  Mr.  Wriford  helplessly. 

Mr.  Chairman  with  another  thump,  and  as  though 
he  had  never  asked  a  question  throughout  the  proceed- 
ings, aimounced  that  that  was  for  him  to  say.  Mr. 
Master  would  find  a  bed  for  him  and  let  him  take  jolly 
good  care  that  he  earned  it." 

"  I'll  be  very  glad  to  work,"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

Mr.  Chairman  looked  at  him  contemptuously. 
"  Plucky  lot  you  can  do,  I  expect!  "  said  Mr.  Chairman. 

"  I  can  do  clerical  work,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Any- 
thing in  the  way  of  writing  or  figures.  I'm  accustomed 
to  that.  If  there's  anything  like  that  until  I'm  fit  to 
go  —  "  A  sudden  faintness  overcame  him.  The  room 
was  very  hot,  and  the  standing  and  the  questioning, 


230  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

while  all  the  time  he  was  thinking  of  something  else, 
possessed  him,  in  his  weak  state,  with  a  sudden  giddi- 
ness. He  smiled  weakly  and  said  "I'm  sorry  "  and  sat 
down  abruptly  on  a  chair  that  fortunately  was  close  to 
him. 

Mr.  Master  bent  over  Mr.  Chairman  and  whispered 
obsequiously  on  a  subject  in  which  the  words  "  our 
clurk  "  were  frequently  to  be  heard.  "  Gentlemen," 
said  Mr.  Chairman,  "  Mr.  Master  suggests  that  we 
might  leave  over  the  business  of  appointing  a  boy- 
clurk  till  our  next  meeting,  while  he  sees  if  this  man 
can  give  him  any  help.  I  want  to  get  home  to  my 
supper,  and  I  expect  you  do.    Agreed,  gentlemen?  " 

"  Agreed,"  chorused  the  gentlemen,  throwing  down 
pens  and  taking  up  new  sandwiches  with  the  air  of  men 
who  had  performed  enormous  labours  and  were  virtu- 
ously happy  to  be  rid  of  them. 

Mr.  Chairman  nodded  at  Mr.  Master.  "  Keep  his 
nose  to  it,"  said  Mr.  Chairman. 

"  This  way,"  said  Mr.  Master  to  Mr.  Wriford;  and 
Mr.  Wriford  got  slowly  to  his  feet  and  followed  him 
slowly  through  a  door  he  held  ajar. 

II' 

Stronger  now.  Increasingly  stronger  as  day  succeeded 
day  and  the  year  came  more  strongly  into  her  own. 
Only  waiting  a  little  more  strength,  so  he  beheved,  to 
betake  himself  from  Pendra  Workhouse  and  go  — 
anywhere.  Actually,  as  the  event  that  did  at  last 
prompt  him  to  go  might  have  told  him,  it  was  a  reason, 
a  shaking-up,  a  stirring  of  his  normal  round,  rather  than 
sufficient  strength  that  he  awaited.    In  a  numbed  and 


CLURK  FOR  MR.   MASTER  231 

listless  and  detached  way  he  was  not  uncomfortable  in 
the  new  circumstances  to  which  he  was  introduced  after 
the  Board-room  interview.  The  Master,  removed  from 
the  obsequious  habit  that  he  wore  when  before  the 
Guardians,  showed  himself  not  unkindly.  He  conceived 
rather  a  liking  for  Mr.  Wriford.  Mr.  Wriford  performed 
for  him  the  duties  of  boy-"  clurk  "  in  a  manner  that  was 
of  the  greatest  assistance  to  him.  He  reported  very 
favourably  on  the  matter  to  the  Guardians;  and  when 
Mr.  Wriford  spoke  of  taking  his  discharge  put  forward 
a  proposition  to  which  the  Guardians  found  it  con- 
venient to  consent.  Why  lose  this  inmate  of  such  val- 
uable clurkly  accomplishments?  Why  not  offer  him 
his  railway  fare  home,  wherever  in  reason  that  might 
be,  if  he  stayed,  say  a  month,  and  continued  to  assist 
the  Master?  At  the  end  of  that  time  he  might  be  offered 
a  very  few  shillings  a  week  to  continue  further  —  if 
wanted.  Mr.  Master  carried  the  proposition  to  Mr. 
Wriford.  Mr.  Wriford  in  a  numbed,  listless  and  de- 
tached way  said:  "  All  right,  yes."  He  was  taken 
from  the  workhouse  ward  where  till  then  he  had  slept 
and  accommodated  in  a  tiny  box-room  in  the  Master's 
quarters.  His  nose  was  kept  at  it,  as  Mr.  Master  had 
been  desired.  His  duties  were  capable  of  extension  in 
many  directions.  That  he  fulfilled  them  in  a  numbed, 
listless,  and  detached  fashion  was  none  to  the  worse  in 
that  he  accepted  them  without  complaint  whatever 
they  might  be.  "  I  call  him:  *  All  right,  yes,'  "  Mr. 
Master  obsequiously  told  the  Guardians.  "  That's 
about  all  ever  he  says.  But  he  does  it  a  heap.  Look 
at  the  way  the  stores  are  entered  up.  I've  had  him 
checking  them  all  this  week." 


CHAPTER  V 

MAINTOP  HAIL  FOR  THE   CAPTAIN 


The  event  that  at  last  aroused  Mr.  Wriford  and  took 
him  far  from  Pendra  was  suppHed  by  the  oldest  sea- 
captain  living  on  that  distinguished  personage's  birth- 
day. The  oldest  sea-captain  Uving  "  went  a  bit  in  his 
legs  "  shortly  after  Mr.  Wriford  had  entered  upon  the 
new  phase  of  his  duties.  He  was  provided  with  a 
wheeled-chair,  and  Mr.  Wriford  found  him  seated  in 
this  in  the  grounds  one  day,  abandoned  by  his  cronies 
and  weeping  softly  over  his  beloved  portograph  in  the 
Daily  Mirror  paper.  He  wept,  he  told  Mr.  Wriford, 
because  none  of  them  blokes  ever  took  any  notice  of 
him  now.  The  finer  weather  kept  the  blokes  largely 
out  of  doors,  and  they  would  go  off  and  leave  him. 
"  I'm  the  oldest  sea-captain  living,  Matey,"  said  he 
in  a  culminating  wail,  "  and  I've  got  me  portograph  in 
the  Daily  Mirror  paper.  It's  cruel  on  me.  'Ave  a  look 
at  it.  Matey." 

Mr.  Wriford  pushed  the  wheeled-chair  and  the  oldest 
sea-captain  living  about  the  grounds  all  that  afternoon, 
and  the  task  became  thereafter  a  part  of  his  daily  occu- 
pation. It  was  not  a  duty.  It  merely  became  a  habit. 
The  face  of  the  oldest  sea-captain  living  would  light  up 
enormously  when  he  saw  Mr.  Wriford  approaching,  and 

232 


MAINTOP  HAIL  FOR  THE   CAPTAIN        233 

he  would  thank  him  affectionately  when  each  voyage 
in  the  wheeled-chair  was  done,  but  Mr.  Wriford  was 
never  actively  conscious  of  finding  pleasure  in  the  old 
man's  gratitude.  He  never  conversed  with  him  during 
their  outings  —  and  had  no  need  to  converse.  The 
oldest  sea-captain  living  did  all  the  talking,  chattering 
garrulously  and  with  the  wandering  of  a  fading  old  mind 
of  his  ships,  his  voyages,  and  his  adventures,  and  ec- 
statically happy  so  to  chatter  without  response.  He 
was  bom  in  Ipswich,  he  told  Mr.  Wriford,  and  he  was 
married  in  Ipswich  and  had  had  a  rare  little  house  in 
Ipswich  and  had  buried  his  wife  in  Ipswich.  Whenever, 
in  his  chattering,  he  was  not  at  sea  he  was  at  Ipswich, 
and  the  reiteration  of  the  word  gradually  wormed  a 
place  into  Mr.  Wriford's  mind,  creeping  in  by  persistent 
thrusts  and  digs  through  the  web  and  mist  of  his  own 
thoughts  which,  as  he  revolved  them,  enveloped  him 
numbed,  Ustless,  detached  from  the  oldest  sea-captain 
hving  and  his  chattering  as  from  all  else  that  surrounded 
him  in  the  workhouse, 

II 

Yet  an  event  proved  that  not  only  the  name  Ipswich 
but  some  feeling  for  this  its  famous  son,  some  sense  of 
happiness  in  the  hours  devoted  to  the  wheeled-chair, 
also  had  found  place  in  his  mind.  A  birthday  of  the 
oldest  sea-captain  living  brought  the  event.  In  cele- 
bration of  the  occasion  the  oldest  sea-captain  living 
was  permitted  to  give  a  httle  tea-party  in  the  conval- 
escent ward.  Some  dainties  were  provided  and  with 
them  just  the  tiniest  little  drop  of  something  in  the 
oldest  sea-captain's  tea.     Enormously  exhilarated,  the 


234  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

oldest  sea-captain  living  obtained  of  the  Matron  per- 
mission to  send  a  special  request  to  Mr.  Wriford  to 
attend  the  festivities,  and  enormously  exhilarated  he 
showed  himself  when  Mr.  Wriford  came.  Flushed  and 
excited  he  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  in  full  possession 
once  more  of  the  ear  of  his  companions  and  making  up 
for  previous  isolation  by  chattering  tremendously  of 
his  exploits.  Roused  to  immense  heights  by  his  sudden 
popularity  and  by  virtue  of  the  little  drop  of  something 
in  his  tea,  he  gave  at  intervals,  to  the  great  delight  of 
the  assembly,  an  example  of  how  he  used  to  hail  the 
maintop  in  foul  weather  when  master  of  his  own  ship. 
With  almost  equal  force  of  lungs  he  hailed  Mr.  Wriford 
when  Mr.  Wriford  appeared. 

"  Hallo,  Matey!  "  hailed  the  oldest  sea-captain  living. 
"Ahoy,  Matey!    Ahoy!" 

No  doubt  about  the  affection  and  gratitude  that 
Matey  had  aroused  in  him  by  perambulation  of  the 
wheeled-chair.  Even  Mr.  Wriford  himself  was  touched 
and  aroused  and  caused  to  smile  by  the  flushed  and 
beaming  countenance  that  called  him  to  a  seat  beside 
him  and  by  the  pressure  of  the  trembling  hands  that 
grasped  his  own  and  drew  him  to  a  chair.  "  Matey!  " 
cried  the  oldest  sea-captain  living,  "I'm  ninety-nine, 
and  I  can  hail  the  maintop  fit  to  make  the  roof  come 
down.    Listen  to  me,  Matey." 

Gurgles  of  anticipation  all  round  the  table.  "  Now 
this  is  to  be  the  last  time,  Father,"  said  the  Matron, 
coming  to  them.  "  There's  too  much  noise  here,  and 
you'll  do  yourself  an  injury  if  you're  not  careful.  The 
last  time,  now!  " 

It  was  the  last  time. 

The  oldest  sea-captain  living  took  an  excited  sip  at 


MAINTOP  HAIL  FOR  THE   CAPTAIN     235 

his  cup  of  tea  with  the  little  drop  of  something  in  it, 
then  caught  at  Mr.  Wriford's  shoulder,  and  drew  him- 
self to  his  full  height  in  his  chair.  His  other  hand  he 
put  trumpet  shape  to  his  lips. 

"Maintop!  ahoy,  there!"  trumpeted  the  oldest 
sea-captain  Hving.  He  inspired  a  long,  wheezing 
breath.  Mr.  Wriford  could  feel  the  hand  clutching 
on  his  shoulder.  "Ahoy!  Maintop,  ahoo!  Ahoy! 
A—  !  " 

The  fingers  on  Mr.  Wriford's  shoulder  bit  into  his 
flesh  as  though  there  was  returned  to  them  all  the  vigour 
that  had  been  theirs  when  first  that  voice  bawled  along 
a  deck.  So  sharp,  so  fierce  the  pinch  that  he  looked  up 
startled.  Startled  also  the  other  faces  along  the  table, 
and  startled  the  Matron,  frightened  and  running  for- 
ward. They  saw  what  he  saw  —  saw  the  blood  well  out 
horribly  upon  the  oldest  sea-captain's  mouth,  felt  the 
grip  relax,  and  saw  him  crash  horribly  upon  the  tea- 
cups. 

Lift  him  away.  Call  the  doctor.  Call  the  doctor. 
Lift  him,  lay  him  here.  Send  away  those  gibbering, 
frightened  old  men  huddling  about  him.  Lay  him  here. 
Wipe  those  poor  old  Hps.  "There,  Father,  there!" 
What  does  he  want?  What  is  it  he  wants?  What  is  he 
trying  to  say?  Listen,  bend  close.  "  Matey,  Matey!  " 
Mr.  Wriford  jumps  up  from  kneeling  beside  him  and 
runs  to  the  table;  snatches  up  a  grimy  newspaper- 
cutting  l>ing  there  and  brings  it  to  the  oldest  sea-cap- 
tain Hving;  puts  it  in  his  fingers  and  sees  the  fingers 
close  upon  it  and  sees  the  glazing  eyes  light  up  with 
great  happiness.  "  Matey!  "  Very  faintly,  scarcely  to 
be  heard..  "  Matey!  "  He  is  thanking  him.  "  Matey! 
Gor  bless  yer,  Matey!  "    There  is  a  bursting  feeling  in 


236  THE   CLEAN   HEART 

Mr.  Wriford's  heart.  Words  come  choking  out  of  it. 
''  Captain!  Captain!  You've  got  your  photograph. 
Take  you  out  for  a  ride  to-morrow,  Captain!  Better 
now?  Captain!  "  Captain's  lips  are  moving.  He  is 
thanking  him.  Ay,  with  his  soundless  Hps  thank- 
ing, with  his  spirit  answering  his  call  from  the  main- 
top. .  .  . 

"Poor  old  Father!"  says  Matron,  rising  from  her 
knees. 

Captain  has  answered. 

Ill 

Attendants  carry  the  body  to  an  adjoining  room.  Mr. 
Wriford  follows  it  and  stays  by  it.  He  is  permitted  to 
stay  and  stays  while  darkness  gathers.  What  now?  for 
now  a  change  again.  To  push  the  wheeled-chair  had 
been  a  habit,  not  a  pleasure.  Was  that  sure?  Why  is 
it  pain  to  think  to-morrow  will  not  bring  that  lighting 
of  those  eyes,  that  chatter  of  those  lips?  Why  in  his 
heart  that  bursting  swell  a  while  ago?  Why  swells  it 
now  as  darkness  shrouds  that  poor  old  form?  Had  he 
without  knowing  it  been  happy  in  that  task?  without 
knowing  it,  come  near  then  to  something  in  life  that  he 
had  missed?  What  now?  Well,  now  he  would  go  away. 
What  here?  Ah,  in  the  dusk  that  masses  all  about  the 
room,  bend  close  and  peer  and  ask  again.  What 
here?  Look,  those  stiff  fingers  clutch  that  portograph. 
Look,  those  stained  lips  are  smiling,  smiling.  He  is 
happy.  He  was  always  happy  when  Matey  came. 
Has  he  taken  happiness  with  him?  Was  it  within 
grasp  and  not  recognised  and  now  missed  again  — 
gone? 


MAINTOP  HAIL  FOR  THE  CAPTAIN    237 


IV 

Mr.  Wriford  takes  his  discharge.  Guardians,  holding 
to  their  word,  take  him  his  railway  ticket.  The  Master 
is  genuinely  sorry.  When  at  last,  on  the  night  of  the 
oldest  sea-captain's  death,  he  finds  Mr.  Wriford  deter- 
mined, "  Well,  the  Guardians  will  be  sitting  to-mor- 
row," he  says.  ''  I'll  tell  'em.  They'll  take  your  ticket 
for  you.    Where  to?  " 

He  has  to  repeat  the  question.  Fresh  from  the  death- 
bed and  its  new  turn  to  the  old  thoughts,  Mr.  Wriford 
is  even  more  than  commonly  absent  and  bemused. 
"  Where  to?  "  repeats  Mr.  Master.  "  Where's  your 
friends  you  want  to  go  to?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  takes  the  first  place  that  comes  into  his 
head.  Very  naturally  it  is  the  name  that  has  edged  a 
place  in  his  mind  by  repeated  reiteration  during  peram- 
bulation of  the  wheeled-chair. 

"  Ipswich,"  says  Mr.  Wriford. 

Guardians  think  it  a  devil  of  a  big  fare  to  pay  and 
grumble  a  bit.  On  the  one  hand,  however,  this  inmate 
has  saved  a  boy-"  clurk's  "  wages  now  for  some  consid- 
erable period:  on  the  other,  Ipswich  will  take  him 
hundreds  of  miles  beyond  danger  of  starving  and  falling 
back  on  their  hands  and  making  a  general  nuisance  of 
himself. 

"  Very  well,  Ipswich,"  says  Mr.  Chairman. 
"  Agreed,  gentlemen? "  Agreed.  "  Take  the  ticket 
yourself,  Mr.  Master,"  says  Mr.  Chairman,  "  and 
see  him  into  the  train.  None  of  his  larks,  you 
know! " 


238  THE   CLEAN  HEART 


V 

So  it  is  done.  On  the  day  previous  to  his  departure 
Mr.  Wriford  has  a  holiday  from  Mr.  Master  and  walks 
over  to  Port  Rannock,  to  the  churchyard.  He  has 
identified  while  in  the  Infirmary  the  Hst  of  clothes 
and  pathetic  oddments  —  bundle  of  thirty-five  coppers 
among  them,  paid  in  towards  expenses  of  burial  —  found 
on  the  body  of  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  has  been  told  the 
grave  lies  just  in  the  corner  as  you  enter.  It  is  just  a 
grass-grown  mound,  nameless,  that  he  finds.  An  old 
man  who  seems  to  be  the  sexton  confirms  his  question. 
Yes,  that  was  a  stranger  found  drowned  back  in  No- 
vember. The  last  burial  here.  Long-Hved  place.  Port 
Rannock. 

Mr.  Wriford  stands  a  long  while  beside  it  —  thinking. 
How  go  you  now,  Puddlebox?  If  you  stood  here  —  "  O 
all  ye  graves,  bless  ye  the  Lord,  praise  Him  —  "  That 
would  be  your  way.  How  go  you  now?  Puddlebox  — 
that  wasn't  your  real  name,  was  it?  —  Puddlebox,  why 
did  you  do  it?  Puddlebox,  how  did  you  do  it?  Puddle- 
box, I'm  going  off  again.  I  don't  know  what's  going  to 
happen.  I'm  just  going.  I  wish  to  God —  I'd  give 
anything,  anything,  to  have  you  \\ith  me  again.  You 
can't.  Well,  how  go  you  now?  Can  you  think  of  me? 
Have  you  found  what  I  can't  find  —  what  I've  missed? 
Ah,  it  was  always  yours.  You  were  always  happy. 
How?  Why?  Down  you  went,  down  and  drowned  for 
me,  for  me!  Down  without  even  good-bye.  Why? 
How?  .  .  . 

The  sexton,  locking  up  his  churchyard,  turned  Mr. 


MAINTOP  HAIL  FOR  THE   CAPTAIN     239 

Wriford  out.  "  Well,  good-bye,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  to 
the  nameless  mound  and  carried  his  thoughts  and  his 
questions  back  along  the  road  to  the  Workhouse.  Ah, 
carried  them  further  and  very  long.  With  him,  now 
centring  about  Mr.  Puddlebox  and  now  about  the 
perplexity  of  the  something  touched  and  something  lost 
again  in  the  oldest  sea-captain  living,  during  the  long 
journey  to  London;  with  him  again  towards  Ipswich. 

VI 

He  crossed  London  by  the  Underground  Railway. 
He  did  not  want  to  see  London.  The  second  part  of 
his  journey,  in  the  Ipswich  train,  was  made  in  a  crowded 
carriage,  amid  much  staring  and  much  chatter.  A  long 
wait  was  made  at  a  station.  Why  Ipswich?  And  what 
then?  Well,  what  did  that  matter?  But  why  stay 
stifled  up  in  here?  He  got  up  and  left  the  compartment 
and  passing  out  of  the  station  among  a  crowd  of  pas- 
sengers gave  up  his  ticket  without  being  questioned  on 
it.  Evening  was  falling.  He  neither  asked  nor  cared 
where  he  was.  Only  those  thoughts,  those  questions 
that  had  come  with  him  in  the  train,  concerned  him, 
and  pursuing  them,  he  followed  a  road  that  took  him 
through  the  considerable  town  in  which  he  found  him- 
self and  into  the  country  beyond  it.  The  month  was 
May,  the  night,  as  presently  it  drew  about  him,  warm 
and  gentle.  A  hedgeside  invited  him,  and  he  sat  down 
and  after  a  httle  while  lay  back.  He  did  not  trouble 
to  make  himself  comfortable.  There  was  nothing  he 
wanted.  There  was  only  one  thought  into  which  all 
the  other  thoughts  shaped:  was  there  some  secret  of 
happiness  he  had  missed? 


BOOK  FIVE 
ONE    OF    THE  BRIGHT    ONES 


BOOK  FIVE 
ONE    OF   THE    BRIGHT   ONES 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  A  FIELD 


Sandwiches,  supplied  in  liberal  manner  by  Mr. 
Master  and  not  touched  on  the  railway  journey,  sufficed 
Mr.  Wriford's  needs  through  the  following  day.  He 
tramped  aimlessly  the  greater  part  of  the  time.  Evening 
again  provided  him  with  a  bed  by  the  roadside.  It  was 
the  next  morning,  to  which  he  awoke  feeling  cold  and 
feeling  ill,  that  aroused  him  to  his  first  thoughts  of  his 
present  situation.  He  clearly  must  do  something;  but 
he  had  only  negative  ideas  as  to  what  it  should  be. 
Negative,  as  that,  in  passing  a  farm,  it  crossed  his  mind 
to  apply  for  work  as  had  been  the  practice  with  Mr. 
Puddlebox.  But  he  recalled  the  nature  of  that  work 
and  was  at  once  informed  that  he  was  now  completely 
unfitted  for  it.  He  had  been  very  strong  then.  He  felt 
very  weak  now.  He  had  then  been  extraordinarily 
vigorous  and  violent  in  spirit,  and  his  spirit's  violence 
had  led  him  to  delight  in  exercising  his  body  at  manual 
labour.     Now  he  felt  very  weary  and  submissive  in 

243 


244  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

mind;  and  that  feeling  of  submission  was  reflected  in 
extreme  lassitude  of  his  limbs.  It  came  back  to  this  — 
and  at  once  he  was  returned  again  to  his  mental  search- 
ing —  that  then  there  seemed  object  and  relief  in  taxing 
himself  arduously:  now  he  had  proved  that  trial  and 
knew  that  no  object  lay  beyond  it,  that  no  relief  would 
ever  now  be  contained  in  it.  And  in  any  event  he  was 
not  capable  of  it:  he  was  weak,  weak;  he  felt  very 
ill. 

But  something  must  be  done.  Let  him  determine 
how  he  stood;  and  with  this  thought  he  began  for  the 
thousandth  time  to  rehearse  his  life  as  he  had  Uved  it. 
One  of  the  lucky  ones:  he  had  been  that:  it  had  driven 
him  into  the  river.  One  of  the  free:  that  also  he  now 
had  been.  Those  months  with  Puddlebox  he  had  cared 
for  nothing  and  for  nobody:  recked  nothing  whether  he 
lived  or  died.  He  had  worked  with  his  hands  as  in  the 
London  days  he  had  imagined  happiness  lay  in  working. 
He  had  attained  in  brimming  fulness  all  that  in  the 
London  days  he  had  madly  desired.  It  had  brought 
him  where  now  he  was  —  to  knowledge  that  there  was 
something  in  life  he  had  missed,  and  to  baffled,  to  be- 
wildered ignorance  what  it  might  be  or  in  what  manner 
of  living  it  might  be  found.  Well,  let  him  drag  on.  Just 
to  drag  on  was  now  the  best  that  he  could  do.  Let  life 
take  him  and  do  with  him  just  whatsoever  it  pleased. 
Let  him  be  lost,  be  lost,  to  all  who  knew  him  and  to  all 
and  everything  he  knew.  Let  him  a  second  time  start 
life  afresh,  and  this  time  not  attack  it  as  in  the  wild 
Puddlebox  days  he  had  attacked  it,  but  be  washed  by 
it  any  whither  it  pleased,  stranded  somewhere  and 
permitted  to  die  perhaps,  perhaps  have  disclosed  to 
him,  and  be  allowed  to  seize,  whatever  it  might  be  that 


IN  A  FIELD  245 

somehow,  somehow,  somewhere,  somewhere,  he  had 
missed. 

Thus,  as  aimlessly  he  wandered,  his  thoughts  took 
the  form  of  plans  or  resolutions,  yet  were  not  resolutions 
in  any  binding  sense.  They  drifted  formlessly  through 
his  mind  as  snatches  of  conversation,  carried  on  in  a 
crowded  apartment,  will  drift  through  a  mind  pre- 
occupied with  some  idea;  or  they  drifted  through  him 
as  snow  at  its  first  fall  will  for  long  drift  over  and  seem 
to  leave  untouched  any  stone  that  rises  above  the  sur- 
face of  the  ground.  He  was  preoccupied  with  his  own 
ceaseless  questioning.  He  was  preoccupied  with  help- 
less and  hopeless  sense  of  helplessness  and  hopelessness. 
There  was  something  that  others  found  that  gave  them 
peace  and  gave  them  happiness,  that  he  had  missed, 
that  he  knew  not  where  he  had  missed  or  where  to 
begin  to  find. 

All  of  plan  or  resolution  that  in  any  way  settled  upon 
this  deeper  brooding  was  that  somehow  he  must  find 
something  to  do.  In  the  midst  of  his  brooding  he  would 
jolt  against  realisation  of  that  necessity,  think  aim- 
lessly upon  it  for  a  Uttle,  then  lose  it  again.  Slowly  it 
permeated  his  mind.  Evening  brought  him  to  the 
outskirts  of  a  small  town;  and  at  a  house  in  a  by-street 
where  "  Beds  for  Single  Men  "  were  offered,  and  where 
he  Hstlessly  turned  in,  the  matter  of  being  called  upon 
for  the  price  of  a  lodging  shook  him  to  greater  concen- 
tration upon  his  resources.  He  found  that,  by  Mr. 
Master's  carelessness  or  kindness,  he  had  been  left  with 
a  trifle  of  change  over  the  money  given  him  to  make  his 
way  across  town  when  he  broke  his  journey  in  London 
—  elevenpence.  He  paid  ninepence  for  his  bed.  In  the 
morning  there  remained  to  him  two  coppers  for  food, 


246  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

and  he  knew  himself  faint  with  protracted  fasting. 
In  a  street  of  dingy  shops  he  turned  into  a  coffee-house. 
"  Shave?  "  said  a  man  in  soiled  white  overalls,  and  he 
realised  that  he  had  mistaken  the  door  and  stepped  into 
a  barber's  adjoining  the  refreshment  shop.  He  was 
unshaven,  and  any  work  that  he  could  do  would  demand 
a  reasonably  decent  appearance.  "  Attend  to  you  in  a 
moment,"  said  the  soiled  overalls,  and  Mr.  Wriford 
dropped  into  a  chair  to  await  his  pleasure.  The  ragged 
fragment  of  a  local  newspaper  lay  on  a  table  beside  him, 
and  he  took  it  up  with  some  vague  idea  of  discovering 
employment  among  the  advertisements.  That  portion 
of  the  paper  was  missing.  His  eye  was  attracted  by  an 
odd  surname,  "  Pennyquick,"  and  when  the  barber 
called  him  and  was  operating  on  him  he  found  himself 
Ustlessly  reflecting  upon  what  he  had  read  of  an  inquest 
following  the  sudden  death  of  the  assistant-master  at 
Tower  House  School,  chief  evidence  given  by  Mr. 
Pennyquick,  headmaster. 

A  penny  was  the  price  of  his  shave.  He  took  his 
penny  that  remained  into  the  adjoining  coffee-shop  and 
obtained  with  it  a  large  mug  of  cocoa.  "  Three  ha'pence 
with  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter,"  said  the  woman  at 
the  counter,  pushing  the  cocoa  towards  him.  "  Don't 
you  want  nothing  to  eat?  " 

Her  tone  and  the  look  she  gave  him  were  kindly.  "  I 
want  it,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  significantly. 

"  You  look  like  it,"  said  the  woman.  "  There!  "  and 
slid  him  a  hunk  of  dry  bread. 

He  tried  to  thank  her.  He  felt  strangely  overcome 
by  her  kindness.  Tears  of  weakness  sprang  to  his  eyes; 
but  no  words  to  his  mouth.  "  That's  all  right,"  she 
said.    "  You're  fair  starved  by  the  look  of  you." 


IN  A  FIELD  247 

He  puzzled  as  he  finished  his  meal,  and  as  he  wan- 
dered out  and  up  the  street  again,  to  know  why  he  had 
been  so  touched  by  the  woman's  action.  He  found 
himself  feeling  towards  her  that  same  swellmg  in  his 
heart  as  when  the  oldest  sea-captain  living  with  stained 
lips  had  whispered:   "  Matey!    Matey!  " 

Was  there  something  in  Hfe  that  he  had  missed? 
What  in  the  name  of  God  had  that  to  do  with  being  given 
a  piece  of  bread? 

II 

He  found  himself  late  in  the  afternoon  reaching  the 
end  of  a  deserted  road  of  widely  detached  villas.  The 
last  house  carried  on  its  gate  a  very  dingy  brass  plate. 

TOWER  HOUSE   SCHOOL 
James  Pennyquick,  B.  A. 

Pennyquick?  Pennyquick?  It  was  the  name  that 
had  caught  his  attention  in  the  paper  at  the  barber's. 
What  had  he  read  about  it?  He  trailed  on  a  few  steps 
and  remembered  the  inquest  on  the  assistant-master, 
and  stopped,  and  stared. 

A  rough  field  lay  beyond  the  house.  It  was  separated 
from  the  road  by  barbed-wire  fencing  which  trailed  be- 
tween dejected-looking  poles  that  at  one  time  had  sup- 
ported it  but  now  bowed  towards  the  ground  in  various 
angles  of  collapse.  Within  the  field  were  pitched  at 
intervals  decayed  cricket  stumps  set  in  a  wide  circle, 
and  there  stood  about  dejectedly  in  this  circle  dejected- 
looking  boys  to  the  number  of  eighteen  or  twenty.  At 
intervals,  as  Mr.  Wriford  stood  and  watched,  the  boys 


248  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

stirred  into  a  dejected  activity  which  gave  them  the 
appearance  of  being  engaged  in  a  game  of  rounders.  A 
gentleman,  wearing  on  his  head  a  dejected-looking 
mortar-board  without  a  tassel,  and  beneath  it  untidy 
black  garments  of  semi-clerical  appearance,  imparted 
these  intervals  of  activity  to  the  boys.  He  paced  the 
field  in  a  series  of  short  turns  near  the  house,  hands 
behind  his  back,  head  bent,  and,  as  Mr.  Wriford  could 
see,  sucking  in  the  cheeks  of  a  coarse-looking  face  sur- 
rounded by  scrubby  whiskers  of  red  hair.  Every  now 
and  then  he  would  throw  up  his  head  towards  the  de- 
jected-looking boys  and  bawl  "  PLAY  UP!  "  whereupon 
the  dejected-looking  boys  would  give  momentary  atten- 
tion to  their  game. 

Mr.  Wriford  stepped  over  the  traiUng  wire  and  ap- 
proached the  maker  of  this  invigorating  call.  "  Excuse 
me,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  come  within  speaking  distance. 
"  Are  you  Mr.  Pennyquick?  " 

Halted  in  his  pacing  at  sight  of  Mr.  Wriford,  the 
gentleman  thus  addressed  awaited  him  with  lowered 
head  and  lowering  gaze  much  as  a  bull  might  regard  the 
first  movements  of  an  intruder.  He  sucked  more  rap- 
idly at  his  cheeks  as  Mr.  Wriford  came  near,  and  for 
a  space  sucked  and  fiercely  stared  after  receiving  the 
question. 

"  Well,  what  if  I  am?  "  he  then  returned.  His  voice 
was  extraordinarily  harsh,  and  he  came  forward  a  step 
that  brought  his  face  close  to  Mr.  Wriford's  and  stared 
more  threateningly  than  before.  His  eyes  were  dull  and 
heavily  bloodshot,  and  there  went  with  the  sucking  at 
his  cheeks  a  nervous  agitation  that  seemed  to  possess 
his  neck  and  all  his  joints.  "  What  if  I  am?  "  he  de- 
manded again,  and  his  words  discharged  a  reek  com- 


IN  A  FIELD  249 

municative  of  the  fact  that,  whoever  he  was,  abstinence 
from  alcohol  was  not  among  his  moral  principles. 

"  By  any  chance,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  "  do  you  happen 
to  want  an  assistant-master?  " 

"  I  don't  want  you." 

"  I  thought  you  might  want  temporary  assistance." 

He  was  stared  at  a  moment  from  the  clouded  eyes. 
Then,  in  another  volume  of  the  fierce  breath,  "  Well, 
you  thought  wrong!  "  he  was  told.    "  Now!  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  and  turned  away. 

He  went  a  dozen  paces  towards  the  road.  There 
seized  him  as  he  turned  and  as  he  walked  away  a  sudden 
realisation  of  his  case,  a  sudden  panic  at  his  plight,  a 
sudden  desperation  to  cling  on  to  what  he  believed 
olTered  here.  He  must  find  something  to  do.  There 
could  be  no  concealment,  no  peace  for  him  while  he 
wandered  outcast  and  penniless.  That  way  lay  what 
most  he  feared.  He  would  be  found  wandering  or  found 
collapsed,  and  questions  would  be  asked  him  and  ex- 
planations demanded  of  him.  That  terrified  him.  He 
could  not  face  that.  Whatever  else  happened  he  must 
be  left  alone.  He  must  find  something  to  do  that  would 
hide  him  —  give  him  occupation  enough  to  earn  him 
food  and  shelter  and  leave  him  to  himself  to  think. 

He  turned  and  went  back  desperately.  The  man  he 
believed  to  be  Mr.  Pennyquick  was  standing  staring 
after  him  and  waited  staring  as  he  came  on. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  desperately.  "  Look 
here,  Mr.  Pennyquick,  I  know  you  think  it  strange  my 
coming  to  you  like  this.  But  I  heard,  I  heard  in  the 
town,  that  you  wanted  an  assistant-master.  If  you 
don't  —  " 

"  I've  told  you,"   said  Mr.   Pennyquick,   admitting 


2  so  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

the  personality  by  not  denying  it,  "  I've  told  you  I 
don't  want  you.    Now!  " 

"  If  you  don't,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  unheeding  the 
rebuff,  more  desperate  by  reason  of  it,  "  if  you  don't, 
there's  an  end  of  it.  But  if  you  want  temporary  help 
—  temporary,  a  day,  or  a  week  —  I  can  do  it  for 
you." 

"  Do  what?  "  demanded  Mr.  Pennyquick. 

"  I  can  teach,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  There  was  sign  of 
relenting  in  Mr.  Pennyquick's  question,  and  Mr.  Wri- 
ford took  it  up  eagerly.    "  I  can  teach,"  he  repeated. 

"  What  can  you  teach?  " 

"  I  can  teach  all  the  ordinary  subjects." 

"  I'm  getting  a  University  man,"  said  Mr.  Penny- 
quick. 

"  Temporarily,"  Mr.  Wriford  urged.  As  every  pas- 
sage of  their  conversation  brought  him  nearer  this 
sudden  chance  or  threw  him  further  from  it,  his  panic 
at  its  failure,  and  what  must  happen,  then  increased  des- 
perately. "  Temporarily,"  he  urged.  "  I've  had  a 
public-school  education." 

"Yes,  you  look  it!"  said  Mr.  Pennyquick,  and 
laughed. 

"  English  subjects,"  cried  Mr.  Wriford.  *'  Latin, 
mathematics.    I  can  do  it  if  you  want  it." 

Mr.  Pennyquick  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  his 
dejected-looking  boys,  then  stared  back  again  at  Mr. 
Wriford  and  began  to  speak  with  more  consideration  and 
less  fierceness.  "  I'm  not  saying,"  said  Mr.  Pennyquick, 
"that  I  don't  want  temmo— temmer— PLAY  UP! 
Tem-po-rary  assistance.  I  do.  I'm  very  ill.  I'm  shaken 
all  to  bits.  I  ought  to  be  in  bed.  What  I'm  saying  is 
I  don't  want  you.     I  don't  know  anything  about  you. 


IN  A  FIELD  251 

IVe  got  the  reputation  of  my  school  to  consider.  That's 
what  I'm  saying  to  you." 

Dizziness  began  to  overtake  Mr.  Wriford  —  the  field 
to  rock  in  long  swells,  Mr.  Pennyquick  by  turns  to 
recede  and  advance,  swell  and  diminish.  He  felt  him- 
self upon  the  verge  of  breaking  down,  wringing  his  hands 
in  his  extremity  and  staggering  away.  But  where? 
Where?  "  Temporarily,"  he  pleaded.  "  Tempora- 
rily." 

"  You  might  drink  for  all  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Penny- 
quick,  pronouncing  this  possibility  as  if  consumed  with 
an  unnatural  horror  of  it. 

"  I  don't  drink." 

"  How  do  I  know  that?  " 

Mr.  Wriford  cried  frantically:  "  It's  only  tempo- 
rarily! If  I  drink,  if  I'm  not  suitable,  you  can  stop  it 
in  a  moment." 

"  No  notice?  "  said  Mr.  Pennyquick. 

"  No  —  no  notice.  Temporarily  —  it's  only  tempo- 
rarily.   That'll  be  understood." 

"  Well,  if  no  notice  is  understood  I'll  take  the  risk  — 
for  a  week,  while  I'm  getting  a  man.  I'll  give  you  fifteen 
shillings.  No,  I  won't.  I'll  give  you  twelve.  I'll  give 
you  twelve  shillings,  and  if  I  have  to  sack  you  before 
the  week's  out  —  well,  you  just  go.  That's  under- 
stood? " 

"  Thank  you,"  Mr.  Wriford  said.  The  field  was 
spinning  now.  He  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say. 
*'  Thank  you." 

"  Be  here  at  nine  to-morrow,"  said  Mr.  Pennyquick. 
"  Just  before  nine,"  and  he  turned  away  and  shouted  to 
his  boys:  "  Stop  now!    Come  in  now!" 

"  But  —  "  said  Mr.  Wriford.    "  But  —  but  —  "    He 


252  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

was  trying  for  words  to  frame  his  difficulty.     "  But  — 
do  I  live  in?  " 

''Live  in!"  cried  Mr.  Pennyquick.  "I'm  taking 
risks  enough  having  you  at  all!  Live  in!  Stop  now. 
Come  in  now!  "  and  he  walked  away  towards  the  house. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  A  PARLOUR 


Lights  in  all  the  windows  and  in  the  street  lamps  as 
Mr.  Wriford  regained  the  town.  Night  approaching  — 
and  he  terrified  of  its  approach.  Little  chill  was  in  the 
air,  yet  as  he  walked  he  trembled  and  his  teeth  chat- 
tered. He  was  shaken  and  acutely  distressed  by  re- 
vulsion of  the  effort  to  cling  on  and  achieve  his  purpose 
against  Mr.  Pennyquick's  domineering  savagery.  He 
was  worse  shaken  and  worse  distressed  by  mounting 
continuance  of  the  panic  at  his  plight  that  had  driven 
him  to  the  interview.  That  plight  and  to  what  it  might 
lead  had  suddenly  been  revealed  to  him  as  he  walked 
away  after  the  first  rebuff.  Now  it  utterly  consumed 
him.  He  shrunk  from  the  gaze  of  passers-by.  He 
avoided  with  more  than  the  fear  of  an  evil-doer  the 
police  constables  who  here  and  there  were  to  be  seen. 
His  urgent  desire  was  concealment,  to  be  left  alone,  to 
be  quiet.  His  fear  was  to  be  apprehended,  found  des- 
titute, questioned,  interfered  with.  Questioning:  that 
was  his  terror;  solitude:  that  was  his  want.  He  wanted 
to  hide.  He  wanted  to  hide  from  every  sort  of  con- 
nection with  what  in  two  different  phases  he  had  lived 
through,  and  in  each  come  only  to  misery.  He  told 
himself  that  if,  in  obedience  to  his  bodily  desires  —  his 
hunger,  his  extreme  physical  wretchedness  —  he  were 

25.3 


254  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

somehow  to  get  in  communication  with  London  and 
enjoy  the  money  and  the  place  that  waited  him  there 

—  that  would  be  the  very  quick  of  intolerable  meeting 
with  his  old  self  again.  Unthinkable  that!  If  his 
bodily  desires  —  his  faintness,  his  extreme  exhaustion 

—  overcame  him,  there  would  be  meeting  the  old  life 
in  guise  of  explanations,  of  dependence  again  in  infir- 
mary or  workhouse.  No,  he  must  somehow  be  alone;  he 
must  somehow  Uve  where  none  should  interfere  with 
him  and  where  he  might  on  the  one  hand  be  occupied 
and  on  the  other  be  able  to  sit  aside  from  all  who  knew 
him  or  might  bother  him,  and  thus  pursue  his  quest:  was 
there  some  secret  of  happiness  in  life  that  he  had  missed? 
These  bodily  miseries  would  somehow,  somewhere,  be 
accommodated  or  would  kill  him :  this  mental  searching 

—  ever? 

There  was  upon  him  accumulation  of  wretchedness 
such  as  in  all  his  wretchedness  of  his  accursed  life  he 
never  had  endured.  At  its  worst  in  the  old  days,  the 
days  of  being  one  of  the  lucky  ones,  there  had  shone  like 
a  lamp  to  one  lost  in  darkness  the  belief  that  if  he  could 
get  out  of  it  all  he  would  end  it  all.  Ah,  God,  God,  he 
had  escaped  it  and  was  in  worse  condition  for  his  escape ! 
The  belief  had  been  tested  —  the  behef  was  gone.  Li 
the  wild  Puddlebox  days  he  had  beaten  off  wretchedness 
with  violence  of  his  hands  and  of  his  body,  believing  that 
it  ever  could  thus  be  beaten.  God,  it  had  beaten  him, 
never  again  in  that  deluded  spirit  could  be  faced.  In 
the  infirmary  he  had  begun  his  wondering  after  some- 
thing in  life  that  he  had  missed.  Lo,  here  was  he  come 
out  to  find  it,  and  Christ!  it  was  not,  and  Christ!  he 
might  not  now  so  much  as  sit  and  rest  and  ponder  it. 

He  felt  himself  hunted.     He  felt  every  eye  turned 


IN  A  PARLOUR  255 

upon  him  within  whose  range  he  came;  every  hand 
tingling  suddenly  to  clutch  him  and  stop  him;  every 
voice  about  to  cry:  "Here,  you!  You,  I  say!  What 
are  you  doing?  Where  do  you  live?  Who  are  you?" 

He  felt  himself  staggering  from  his  dreadful  faintness 
and  thereby  conspicuous.  Thrice  as  he  stumbled  round 
any  corners  that  he  met  he  found  himself  passing  a 
constable  who  each  time  more  closely  stared.  He  took 
another  turning.  It  showed  him  again  that  same 
policeman  at  the  end  of  the  street.  He  dared  not  turn 
back.  That  would  be  flight,  his  disordered  mind  told 
him,  and  he  be  followed.  He  dared  not  go  on.  There 
was  a  little  shop  against  where  he  stood.  Its  lighted 
window  displayed  an  array  of  gas-brackets,  a  variety 
of  glass  chimneys  and  globes  for  lamps  and  gas,  some 
coils  of  lead  piping,  and  in  either  corner  a  wash-basin 
fitted  with  taps.    There  was  inscribed  over  this  shop 

Hy.  Bickers,  Cert.  Plumber 

and  attached  to  a  pendent  gas  bracket  within  the 
window  was  a  card  with  the  announcement: 

Lodger  Taken 

Mr.  Wriford  made  a  great  effort  to  steady  himself; 
steadied  his  shaking  hand  to  press  down  the  latch;  and 
to  the  very  loud  jangle  of  an  overhead  bell  entered  the 
tiny  shop  that  the  door  disclosed. 

II 

There  was  sound  of  conversation  and  the  clatter  of 
plates  from  a  brightly-Ut  inner  parlour.     Mr.  Wriford 


256  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

heard  a  voice  say:  "  I'll  go,  Essie,  dear,"  and  there 
came  out  to  him  a  nice-looking  little  old  woman,  white- 
haired  and  silvery-hued,  rather  lined  and  worn,  yet 
radiating  from  her  face  a  noticeable  happiness,  as  though 
there  was  some  secret  joy  she  had,  who  smiled  at  him 
in  pleasant  inquiry. 

"  I'm  looking  for  a  lodging,"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

At  her  entry  she  had  left  the  parlour  door  open  behind 
her,  and  at  Mr.  Wriford's  words  there  came  to  him 
through  it  a  bright  girUsh  voice  which  said:  "There, 
now!  Jus'  what  I  was  saying!  Isn't  that  funny,  though! 
Let's  have  a  laugh!  "  and  with  it,  as  though  Mr.  Wri- 
ford's statement  had  conveyed  the  jolliest  joke  in  the 
world,  the  merriest  possible  ring  of  laughter. 

The  woman  smiled  at  Mr.  Wriford;  and  there  was 
in  the  laugh  something  so  infectious  as  to  make  him, 
despite  his  wretchedness,  smile  in  response.  She  went 
back  to  the  door  and  closed  it.  "  That's  our  Essie," 
she  said,  speaking  as  though  Mr.  Wriford  in  common 
with  everybody  else  must  know  who  Essie  was.  "  She's 
such  a  bright  one,  our  Essie!  "  The  secret  happiness 
that  seemed  to  lie  behind  her  years  and  behind  the  Imes 
of  her  face  shone  strongly  as  she  spoke.  One  might 
guess  that  "  Our  Essie  "  was  it.  Then  she  answered 
Mr.  Wriford's  statement.  "  Well,  we've  got  a  very 
nice  bedroom,"  she  told  him.  "  Would  you  like  to  see 
it?" 

"  I'm  sure  it's  nice,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  His  voice, 
that  he  had  tried  to  strengthen  for  this  interview,  for 
some  ridiculous  reason  trembled  as  he  spoke.  The 
reason  lay  somewhere  in  the  woman's  motherly  face  and 
in  her  happy  gleaming.  He  felt  himself  stupidly  af- 
fected just  as  he  had  been  affected  —  recurrence  of  the 


IN  A  PARLOUR  257 

sensation  brought  the  scenes  before  his  eyes  —  by  the 
last  appeal  to  him  of  the  oldest  sea-captain  living,  and 
by  the  kindly  action  of  the  woman  in  the  coffee-shop 
who  had  given  him  a  piece  of  bread  early  that  morning. 
"  I'm  sure  it's  nice,"  he  said  again,  repeating  the  words 
to  correct  the  stupid  break  in  his  voice.  "  Would  you 
tell  me  the  price?  " 

"  Won't  you  sit  down?  "  said  the  woman.  "  You  do 
look  that  tired!  " 

He  murmured  some  kind  of  thanks  and  dropped  into 
a  chair  that  stood  by  the  counter. 

She  looked  at  him  very  compassionately  before  she 
answered  his  question.  "  Tiring  work  looking  for 
lodgings,"  she  said. 

He  nodded  —  very  faint,  very  wretched,  very  vexed 
with  himself  at  that  stupid  swelling  from  his  heart  to 
his  throat  that  forbade  him  speech. 

"  Would  you  be  living  in?  "  he  was  asked. 

"  I  think  I  should  be  out  all  day." 

"  Jus'  breakfast  and  supper?  That's  the  usual,  of 
course,  isn't  it?  And  full  Sundays.  That  would  be 
twelve  shillings." 

Twelve  shillings  was  to  be  his  wage  from  Mr.  Penny- 
quick.     He  could  not  spend  it  all. 

"  I  couldn't  pay  it,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  and  caught  at 
the  counter  to  assist  himself  to  rise. 

"  Well,  I  am  sorry,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  woman,  and 
she  added:    "  Hadn't  you  better  rest  a  Uttle?  " 

His  difficulty  in  rising  warned  him  that  if  he  did  get 
up  he  might  be  unable  to  stand.  "  I  will,  just  a  mo- 
ment," he  told  her,  "  if  you  don't  mind.  It's  very  kind 
of  you.    I've  had  rather  a  long  day." 

She  had  said  she  was  sorry,  and  she  stood  looking  at 


258  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

him  as  though  she  were  genuinely  grieved  and  more  than 
a  little  disturbed  in  mind.  "  How  much  could  you 
pay?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  could  pay  ten." 

"  And  when  might  you  want  to  begin?  " 

"  Now." 

"  Would  it  be  for  long?  " 

"  I  can't  say.    I  don't  think  it  would." 

She  said  briskly,  as  though  her  obvious  disturbance 
of  mind  had  dictated  a  sudden  course,  ''  Look  here, 
jus'  wait  a  minute,  will  you?  "  and  went  into  the  par- 
lour, closing  the  door  behind  her. 

Murmur  of  voices. 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  coming  back  to  him,  "if  it 
was  likely  to  be  regular  perhaps  we  could  arrange  ten 
shillings.  But  not  knowing,  you  see,  that's  awkward. 
We  like  our  lodger  more  to  be  one  of  us  Uke.  We  don't 
want  the  jus'  come  and  go  sort.  That's  how  it  stands, 
you  see.    You  couldn't  say,  I  suppose?  " 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Mr.  W^riford.  "  I'm 
afraid  I  can't.  I'll  tell  you.  I'm  engaged  with  Mr. 
Penny  quick  at  Tower  House  School  —  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Pennyquick!  " 

"  You  know  him,  I  expect?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  Mr.  Pennyquick,"  said  the  woman,  and 
seemed  to  have  some  meaning  in  her  tone. 

"  Well,  it's  only  for  a  week,  or  by  the  week.  I  can't 
say  how  long." 

He  was  given  no  reply  to  this.  It  was  as  if  mention 
of  Mr.  Pennyquick's  name  placed  him  as  very  likely 
to  be  among  the  "  come  and  go  sort."  "  I  had  better 
be  going,  I  think,"  he  said,  and  this  time  got  to  his  feet. 

"  Well,  I  am  sorry,"  the  woman  said  again.     ''  I'm 


IN  A  PARLOUR  259 

sure  I'm  very  sorry,  and  you  know  I  can't  say  straight 
off  where  you'll  get  what  you  want  for  ten  shillings. 
There's  places,  of  course.  But  you  know  you  don't 
look  fit  to  go  trudging  round  after  them  this  time  of 
night.  Hadn't  you  better  go  just  for  the  night  some- 
where? There's  Mrs.  Winter  I  think  would  take  you 
for  the  night.    She's  at  —  " 

Mr.  Wriford  went  to  the  door.  "  You  needn't 
trouble,"  he  said  weakly.  "  It  can't  be  by  the  night.  I 
can  only  pay  at  the  end  of  the  week." 

The  woman  gave  a  little  sound  of  dismay.  "  But  — 
do  you  mean  no  money  till  then?  " 

He  nodded.   That  was  what  he  meant^ — and  must  face. 

"  But,  dearie  me,  you  won't  find  any  will  take  you 
without  deposit.  They're  very  suspicious  here,  you 
know." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "Well  —  "  and  with 
fingers  as  helpless  as  his  voice  began  to  fumble  at  the 
latch. 

"  But  where  are  you  going?  " 

"  This  handle,"  he  said.  "  It's  rather  stiff."  He  took 
his  hand  from  it  as  she  came  round  the  counter  to  him, 
then  immediately  caught  at  it  again  and  supported  him- 
self against  it. 

She  saw  the  action  and  cried  out  in  consternation. 
"  Oh,"  she  cried.  "  Why,  you  can't  hardly  stand,  and 
going  off  nowhere!  Why,  you  jus'  can't.  You'll  have 
to  stop." 

He  asked  wearily:   "  Stop!    How  can  I  stop?  " 

"Why,  ten  shillings.  That'll  be  all  right.  Our 
Essie,  you  know  —  " 

He  could  say  no  more  than  "  Thank  you.  Thank 
you." 


26o  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  You'll  come  right  along.  We're  just  sitting  down 
to  supper.    No,  I'll  just  tell  them  first." 

He  effected  speech  again  as,  with  her  last  words,  she 
went  to  the  parlour  door.  "  But  deposit,"  he  said,  and 
recalled  the  phrase  she  had  used.  "  Aren't  you  sus- 
picious? " 

"  Why,  that  can't  be  helped,"  she  smiled  back  at 
him.  "  Our  Essie,  you  know,  she'd  never  forgive  me 
if  I  sent  you  off  like  you  are.    Jus'  sit  down." 

He  had  scarcely  taken  a  seat  when  she  was  back 
again  and  calling  him  from  the  threshold  of  the  open 
parlour  door.  '^  That's  all  right.  Come  right  along. 
You  didn't  give  your  name,  did  you?  " 

"  Wriford,"  and  he  reached  her  where  she  stood 
smiUng. 

She  turned  within  and  announced  him:  "Well, 
here's  our  lodger.    That's  Mr.  Bickers." 

A  man  of  stature  and  of  strength,  once,  this  Hy. 
Bickers,  Cert.  Plumber.  Bent  now  and  stooping,  but 
with  something  very  strong,  very  confident  in  his  face: 
lined  and  worn  as  his  wife's,  silvery  as  hers.  Slightly 
whiskered,  of  white,  otherwise  clean  shaven.  A  smoking- 
cap  on  his  head.  Little  enough  haiv  beneath  it.  In  his 
face  that  same  suggestion  of  a  very  happy  secret  happi- 
ness. "  Expect  you're  tired,"  said  Mr.  Bickers  and  gave 
a  warm  hand-clasp. 

"  And  that's  our  Essie." 

A  very  cool,  vigorous  young  hand,  this  time,  that 
grasped  Mr.  Wriford's  and  shook  it  strongly.  A  slim, 
brown  Httle  thing,  our  Essie,  eighteen  perhaps,  very 
pretty,  with  extraordinarily  bright  eyes;  wearing  a  blue 
cotton  dress  with  white  spots. 

"  Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  Essie. 


IN  A  PARLOUR  261 


III 

Such  a  cheerful,  jolly  room,  the  parlour.  Here  was 
a  round  table  set  out  for  supper,  and  Essie  busthng  in 
and  out  of  what  appeared  to  be  the  kitchen,  giving  final 
touches  and  laying  a  fourth  place.  A  great  number  of 
framed  texts  all  round  the  walls,  with  two  or  three 
religious  pictures,  a  highly  coloured  portrait  of  Queen 
Victoria  and  another  of  General  Booth.  A  bright  little 
fire  burning,  with  an  armchair  of  shining  American 
cloth  on  each  side  of  it,  and  a  sofa  and  chairs,  similarly 
covered,  all  with  antimacassars,  set  around  the  room. 
A  bookcase  near  the  window,  and  near  one  armchair 
a  little  table  carrying  an  immense  Bible  with  other 
Bibles  and  prayer-books  placed  upon  it.  Some  shells 
on  the  mantelpiece  in  front  of  an  immense,  gilt-framed 
mirror,  and  with  them  a  great  number  of  cups  and 
saucers  and  vases  all  inscribed  as  "  A  present  from  "  the 
place  whence  they  were  purchased. 

Mr.  Wriford  sat  on  the  sofa,  silent,  better  already 
from  the  warmth  and  the  fragrant  savour  from  the 
kitchen;  not  less  wretched  though:  somehow  more 
wretched,  somehow  overcome  and  utterly  consumed 
with  that  swelling  feehng  from  his  heart  to  his  throat. 
Mr.  Bickers  sat  in  one  of  the  armchairs,  silent.  Mrs. 
Bickers  in  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Bickers  appears.  "  Now  Essie,  dear,  I'll  dish 
up.  You  jus'  look  after  the  lodger,  dear.  I  expect  the 
lodger  will  like  to  wash  his  hands.  Hot  water,  dear, 
and  there's  his  bundle." 

Essie  comes  out  of  the  kitchen  with  a  steaming  jug 


262  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

in  one  hand  and  a  candle  in  the  other,  puts  down  the 
candle  to  tuck  Mr.  Wriford's  parcel  under  her  arm,  and 
then  takes  it  up  again.  "  This  way,"  says  Essie  and 
leads  the  way  through  another  door  and  up  a  flight  of 
very  steep  and  very  narrow  stairs.  "  Aren't  they  steep, 
though?  "  says  Essie  over  her  shoulder.  "  We  don't 
half  want  a  Uft!  " 

The  stairs  give  onto  a  passage  with  doors  leading  off 
from  the  right,  and  the  passage  terminates  in  a  door 
v/hich  Essie  butts  open  with  her  knee,  and  here  is  a 
bedroom.  "  This  is  the  lodger's  room,"  says  Essie, 
setting  down  the  candle  and  then  removing  the  jug 
from  the  basin  and  pouring  out  the  water.  "  Course  it 
don't  look  much  jus'  at  present,  not  expecting  you, 
you  see.  But  I'll  pop  up  after  supper  an'  put  it  to  rights. 
Find  your  way  down,  can't  you?  I'll  get  you  a  bit  of 
soap  out  of  my  room  to  go  on  with."  There  is  a  second 
door  to  the  bedroom,  and  Essie  goes  through  it  and 
returns  with  soap.  "  That's  my  room,"  says  Essie. 
"  I  call  this  my  dressing-room  when  we  haven't  got  a 
lodger,  jus'  like  as  if  I  was  a  duchess,"  and  she  gives  the 
bright  laugh  that  Mr.  Wriford  had  heard  in  the  shop. 
"  That's  all  right  then.  Bring  the  candle.  That  mark 
on  the  wall  there's  where  a  lodger  left  his  candle  burning 
all  night.  Oh,  they're  cautions,  some  of  our  lodgers! 
Don't  be  long." 

IV 

Most  savoury  and  most  welcome  soup  opens  the 
supper.  After  it  a  shoulder  of  mutton,  Essie  doing  all 
the  helping  and  the  carving  and  the  running  about. 
She  sits  opposite  Mr.  Wriford.     Her  eyes  —  there  is 


IN  A  PARLOUR  263 

something  quite  extraordinarily  bright  about  her  eyes 
as  he  watches  them.  They  are  never  still.  They  are  for 
ever  sparkling  from  this  object  to  that;  and  wherever 
momentarily  they  rest  he  sees  them  sparkle  anew  and 
sees  her  soft  lips  twitch  as  though  from  where  her  eyes 
alight  a  hundred  merry  fancies  run  sparkHng  to  her 
mind.  Her  eyes  flicker  over  the  dish  of  potatoes  and 
rest  there  a  moment,  and  there  they  are  sparkling,  and 
her  mouth  twitching,  as  though  she  is  recalling  comic 
passages  in  bu>'ing  them  or  in  cooking  them,  or  perhaps 
it  is  their  very  appearance,  grotesquely  fat  and  help- 
less, heaped  one  upon  the  other,  in  which  she  sees  some- 
thing odd  that  tickles  her.  Most  extraordinarily  bright 
eyes,  and  with  them  always  most  funny  little  compres- 
sions of  her  lips,  as  if  she  is  for  ever  tickled  onto  the 
very  brink  of  breaking  into  laughter. 

This  at  last,  indeed,  she  does.  Presence  of  the  new 
lodger  seems  to  throw  a  constraint  about  the  table,  and 
the  meal  is  eaten  almost  to  the  end  of  the  mutton  course 
in  complete  silence.  Very  startling,  therefore,  when 
Essie  suddenly  drops  her  knife  and  fork  with  a  clatter 
and  leans  back  in  her  chair,  eyes  all  agleam.  "  Oh, 
dear  me!  "  cries  Essie,  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bickers  stare  at 
her.  "  Oh,  dear  me!  I'm  very  sorry,  but  just  munching 
like  this,  you  know,  all  of  us,  without  speaking  a  word! 
Oh,  dear!  "  and  she  uses  the  expression  that  Mr.  Wriford 
had  heard  when  he  first  spoke  to  Mrs.  Bickers.  "  Oh, 
dear,  let's  have  a  laugh!  " 

Mrs.  Bickers  glances  at  Mr.  Wriford  and  says  reprov- 
ingly: "  Oh,  Essie!  "  But  there  is  no  help  for  it  and  no 
avoiding  its  infection.  Essie  puts  back  her  head  and 
goes  into  a  ring  of  the  brightest  possible  laughter,  and 
Mrs.  Bickers  laughs  at  her,  and  Mr.  Bickers  laughs  at 


264  THE   CLEAN   HEART 

her,  and  even  Mr.  Wriford  smiles;  and  thereafter  Essie 
chatters  without  ceasing  to  her  parents  on  an  extraordi- 
nary variety  of  topics  connected  with  what  she  has  done 
or  seen  during  the  day,  in  every  one  of  which  she  finds 
subject  for  amusement  and  many  times  declares  of 
whatever  it  may  be:  "  Oh,  aren't  they  funny,  though! 
Let's  have  a  laugh!  " 

Mr.  Wriford  smiles  when  she  laughs  —  impossible 
to  avoid  it.  Otherwise  he  contributes  nothing  to  the 
chatter.  This  strange,  tliis  kind  and  happy  and  gener- 
ous ending  to  his  day,  acts  upon  him  only  in  increasing 
sensation  of  that  upward  swelUng  from  his  heart  to  his 
throat  that  forbids  him  speech.  He  has  the  feeling  that 
if  he  talks  his  voice  will  break  in  tears  —  of  weakness, 
of  wretchedness :  nay,  of  worse  than  these  —  of  their 
very  apotheosis.  There  is  happiness  here.  There  is 
here,  among  these  three,  that  which  he  is  seeking,  seeking 
and  cannot  find.  They  have  found  it:  what  is  it  then? 
It  is  all  about  them  —  shining  in  their  faces,  singing  in 
their  words.  He  is  not  of  it.  He  is  outside  it.  They  are 
on  the  heights;  he  in  the  depths,  the  depths!  Let  him 
not  speak,  let  him  not  speak !  If  he  speaks  he  must  sob 
and  cry,  get  to  his  feet,  while  wondering  they  look  at 
him,  and  stare  at  them,  and  break  from  them  and  go. 
If  he  so  betrays  himself  he  must  cry  at  them:  "  What 
have  you  found?  Why  are  you  happy?  This  kills  me, 
kills  me,  to  sit  here  and  watch  you.  Don't  touch  me. 
None  of  you  touch  me.    Let  me  go.    Just  let  me  go." 

They  seem  to  see  his  plight.  They  smile  encoura- 
gingly at  him  to  draw  him  into  their  talk;  Mr.  Bickers, 
when  the  women  are  clearing  away,  offers  him  a  new  clay 
pipe  and  the  tobacco  jar.  But  they  seem  to  understand. 
They  accept  without  comment  or  offence  the  negation 


IN  A  PARLOUR  265 

of  these  advances  which  he  gives  only  by  shaking  his 
head  as  they  are  made. 

"  Well,  that's  done!  "  says  Essie,  coming  down  from 
the  lodger's  room  after  the  supper  has  been  cleared  away. 
"Bed  made  and  everything  nice  and  ready.  One  of  the 
castors  of  the  bed  is  shaky,  Dad.  You'll  have  to  see 
to  it  in  the  morning.  I  can't  think  how  I  never  noticed 
it  till  now.    Oh,  those  lodgers!    They're  fair  cautions!  " 

Mrs.  Bickers  smiles  at  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Well,  I  expect 
you'd  like  to  go  straight  to  bed,  wouldn't  you  now?  " 

Painful  this  distrust  of  his  voice.  He  rises  and  man- 
ages:  "  Yes,  I  would." 

"  You'll  be  ever  so  much  better  in  the  morning  after  a 
good  sleep.  What  about  —  "  and  Mrs.  Bickers  looks 
at  her  husband. 

"  It's  our  custom,"  says  Mr.  Bickers  in  his  deep 
voice,  "  all  to  read  a  piece  from  the  Bible  before  we  go 
to  bed  —  all  that  sleep  under  this  roof.  We'll  do  it  now 
so  you  can  get  along.    Essie,  dear." 

Essie  puts  chairs  to  the  table,  and  then  Bibles.  The 
immense  Bible  for  Mr.  Bickers,  one  but  a  Uttle  smaller 
for  Mrs.  Bickers,  and  one  for  herself.  "  There's  my 
Church-service  for  you,"  says  Essie  to  Mr.  Wriford. 
All  the  Bibles  have  a  ribbon  depending  from  them 
whereat  they  are  opened,  and  Essie  finds  the  place  for 
Mr.  Wriford.  "  Twenty-fourth  Psalm,"  says  Essie. 
"  My  fav'rit.    Isn't  it  a  short  one,  though!  " 

"  We  read  in  turn,"  says  Mr.  Bickers.  He  has  one 
hand  on  the  great  Bible  and  stretches  the  other  to  Mrs. 
Bickers,  who  takes  it  and  holds  it.  Mr.  Wriford  sits 
opposite  them,  then  Essie,  next  her  father  on  his  other 
side  and  snuggling  against  him,  and  they  begin. 

Mr.  Bickers,  very  deep  and  slow  and  reverent: 


266  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

"  The  earth  is  the  Lord's  and  all  that  therein  is:  the 
compass  of  the  world  and  they  that  dwell  therein.'^ 

Mrs.  Bickers,  very  gently: 

"  For  he  hath  founded  it  upon  the  seas,  and  prepared 
it  upon  the  floods." 

Mr.  Wriford.  He  is  trembling,  trembling,  trembling. 
They  are  waiting  for  him.  They  are  looking  at  him. 
Round  swings  the  room,  around  and  around.  Who  is 
waiting?  Who  is  looking?  Others  are  here.  He  hears 
the  oldest  sea-captain  living,  plainly  as  if  he  stood  before 
him  in  the  room:  "  Matey!  Matey!  "  He  sees  Mr 
Puddlebox,  plainly  as  if  he  were  here  beside  him. 
"  Wedge  in,  boy;  wedge  in!  "  They  are  surely  here. 
They  are  surely  calHng  him.  He  is  on  the  rock  with  the 
sea  about  him.  He  is  in  the  little  room  w^th  the  figure 
on  the  bed.  Darkness,  darkness.  Is  this  Puddlebox? 
Is  this  Captain?  Is  he  by  the  sea?  Is  he  by  the  bed? 
Round  swings  the  darkness,  around  and  around.  He  is 
not!  He  is  here!  He  is  here  where  happiness  is.  They 
are  waiting  for  him.  They  are  watching  him.  Wriford! 
Wriford!  He  tries  to  read  the  words  that  swim  before 
his  eyes.  He  must.  They  are  very  few.  They  are  a 
question.    He  must!    Trembling  he  gives  voice: 

"  Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  Lord:  or  who 
shall  rise  up  in  his  holy  place?  " 

Essie,  strong  and  clear  and  eager,  emphasising  the 
first  word  as  though  strongly  and  directly  she  answered 
him: 

"  Even  he  that  hath  clean  hands,  and  a  pure  heart: 
and  that  hath  not  lift  up  his  mind  unto  vanity,  nor  sworn 
to  deceive  his  neighbour.'^ 

Mr.  Bickers,  as  one  that  feels  the  words  he  reads, 
and  is  sure  of  them: 


IN  A  PARLOUR  267 

"  He  shall  receive  the  blessing  from  the  Lord :  and 
righteousness  from  the  God  of  his  salvation." 

Mrs.  Bickers  in  gentle  confirmation: 

"  This  is  the  generation  of  them  that  seek  him  :  even  of 
them  that  seek  thy  face,  O  Jacob." 

His  turn  again.  He  cannot!  Let  him  get  out  of  this! 
Let  him  away!  This  is  not  to  be  borne.  Unendurable 
this.  What  are  they  reading?  Why  have  they  chosen 
these  words.  *'  Who  shall  ascend?  "  They  know  his 
misery,  then!  They  know  the  depths  that  he  is  in! 
Hateful  that  they  should  know  it,  hateful,  insufferable, 
horrible.  They  see  his  state  and  have  chosen  words 
that  mean  his  state.  He  is  exposed  before  them.  Let 
him  away!  Let  him  get  out  of  this!  They  shall  not 
know !  His  turn.  He  cannot,  cannot.  They  are  watch- 
ing. They  are  waiting.  Do  they  see  how  his  face  is 
working?  Do  they  see  how  he  twists  and  twists  his 
hands?  His  turn.  Ah,  ah,  he  is  in  the  depths,  the 
depths!  He  is  physically,  actually  down,  down  — strug- 
gling, gasping,  suffocating.  All  this  room  and  these 
about  him  stand  as  it  were  above  him  —  watching  him, 
waiting  for  him,  knowing  his  misery.  He  is  sinking, 
sinking.  He  is  in  black  and  whirKng  darkness.  There 
is  shouting  in  his  ears.    Let  him  away!    Let  him  go! 

Some  one  says:  "  Essie,  dear." 

Essie  —  strong  and  loud  and  clear,  with  tremendous 
emphasis  upon  the  first  word  as  though  her  strong  young 
voice  performed  its  meaning: 

"  Lift  up  your  heads,  0  ye  gates,  and  be  ye  lift  up,  ye 
everlasting  doors:  and  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in." 

He  gets  to  his  feet,  overturning  his  chair.  He  stumbles 
away,  with  blind  eyes,  with  groping  hands. 

"  Not   that   door! "   cries   Essie   and   runs   to   him. 


268  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  Here's  the  door.  Here's  the  stairs.  Look,  here's 
your  candle." 

He  blunders  up.  He  blunders  to  his  room.  He  ex- 
tinguishes the  candle.  Let  him  have  the  dark,  the 
dark !  He  throws  off  his  clothes,  tearing  them  from  him 
as  though  they  were  his  agonies.  God,  if  he  could  but 
tear  these  tortures  so!  He  flings  himself  upon  the  bed 
and  trembles  there  and  clutches  there  and  thrusts  the 
sheet  between  his  teeth  to  stay  him  crying  aloud.  In- 
choate thoughts  that  rend  him,  rend  him!  Unmeaning 
cries  that  with  the  sheet  he  stifles.  What,  what  con- 
sumes him  now?  He  cannot  name  it.  What  tortures 
him?  He  does  not  know.  Writhe,  writhe  in  the  bed; 
and  now  it  is  the  sea,  and  now  the  Infirmary  ward,  and 
now  the  coffee-shop,  and  now  the  parlour.  Ah,  beat 
down,  beat  down  these  torments!  Ah,  sit  up  and  stare 
into  the  darkness  and  rid  the  spirit,  rid  the  mind,  of  all 
these  shapes  and  scenes  that  press  about  the  pillow. 
Has  he  slept?  Is  he  sleeping?  Why  suffers  he?  What 
racks  him?  In  God's  name  what?  In  pity,  in  pity 
what? 

"  Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates;  and  be  ye  lift  up,  ye 
everlasting  doors:  and  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in.'* 

Ah,  ah! 


CHAPTER   III 

TRIAL   OF   MR.    WRIFORD 


He  had  determined,  writhing  in  those  tortures  of  that 
night,  at  daybreak  to  get  out  of  it.  He  had  promised 
himself,  striving  to  subdue  his  mental  torments,  that 
early  morning,  the  house  not  yet  astir,  should  see  him 
up  and  begone.  Sleep  betrayed  him  his  promises  and 
his  resolves.  While  he  writhed  and  while  he  cried  aloud 
to  sleep  to  come  and  rest  his  fevered  wri things,  she  would 
not  be  won.  Towards  morning  she  came  to  him.  He 
awoke  to  find  daylight,  sounds  about  the  house,  escape 
impossible. 

His  reception  at  breakfast  in  the  little  parlour  changed 
his  intention.  His  reception  made  the  desertion  that 
now  he  intended  immediately  he  could  leave  the  house 
as  impossible  as,  now  he  saw,  escape  at  daybreak  had 
been  most  base.  He  found  in  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bickers 
and  in  Essie  not  the  smallest  trace  of  recognition  that 
his  conduct  upon  the  pre\dous  evening  had  been  in  the 
smallest  degree  remiss.  He  found  them  proving  in 
innumerable  little  ways  that,  as  Mrs.  Bickers  had  told 
him,  they  hked  their  lodgers  to  be  "  one  of  us  Kke." 
Mr.  Bickers  proposes  to  walk  with  him  towards  Tower 
House  School  in  order  to  show  him  short  cuts  that  will 
lessen  the  way  by  five  minutes.     Mrs.  Bickers  inquires 

269 


270  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

if  she  may  go  through  his  bundle  to  see  if  any  buttons 
or  any  darnings  are  required.  Overnight  he  had  been 
made  to  put  on  a  pair  of  Mr.  Bickers'  slippers.  Essie 
had  put  a  new  lace  in  one  of  his  boots  because  one,  when 
she  was  poHshing  the  boots,  was  "worn  out  a  fair  treat." 
How  can  he  run  away  from  them  without  paying  them 
in  face  of  such  kindness  and  confidence  as  all  this? 
"  Glad  you  like  bacon,"  says  Essie,  helping  him  gen- 
erously from  the  steaming  dish  she  brings  from  the 
kitchen;  and  says  to  her  mother:  "  Haven't  some  of  our 
lodgers  bin  fanciful,  though?  Oh,  we  haven't  half  had 
some  cautions!  "  and  her  eyes  sparkle  and  her  lips 
twitch  as  though  her  merry  mind  is  running  over  the 
entertainment  that  some  of  the  cautions  have  given. 

No,  there  can  be  no  desertion  of  his  duties  here  after 
this.  They  trust  him.  They  accept  him  as  "  one  of 
us  like."  Already  he  is  indebted  to  them.  Until  the 
week  is  out  he  is  penniless  and  unable  to  repay  them. 
When  his  week  is  up  he  can  thank  them  and  pay  them 
and  go.  Till  then,  at  whatever  cost  —  and  he  will 
stiffen  himself  for  the  future;  he  was  ill  and  over- 
wrought last  night  —  he  must  stay  and  earn  and  settle 
for  the  week  for  which  he  is  committed. 

"  Ready?  "  says  Mr.  Bickers.  "  Time  we  was  moving 
now." 

Yes,  he  is  quite  ready.  Essie  runs  to  the  shop  door 
to  open  it  for  them.  Mrs.  Bickers  comes  with  them  to 
see  them  off.  Some  cows  are  being  driven  down  the 
street.  Essie  stops  with  hand  on  the  door  to  watch 
them.  "  Now,  Essie,"  says  Mr.  Bickers.  Two  cows 
lumber  onto  the  pavement.  Mr.  Wriford  sees  Essie's 
eyes  sparkling  and  her  lips  twitching  as  she  watches. 

Mr.  Bickers  again:    "  Now,  Essie  dear  —  Essie!  " 


TRIAL   OF   MR.   WRIFORD  271 

But  Essie  still  watches.  "  Oh,  jus'  look  at  them!  " 
says  Essie  with  a  little  squirm  of  her  shoulders  and  then 
turns  round:  "Aren't  cows  funny,  though?  Let's 
have  a  laugh! " 

There  is  nothing  at  all  to  laugh  at  that  any  of  the 
waiting  three  can  see  —  except  at  Essie.  Essie  laughs 
as  though  cows  were  indeed  the  very  funniest  things  in 
the  world,  and  her  laugh  is  impossible  of  resistance. 
Mr.  Bickers  is  smiHng  as  they  start  down  the  street, 
and  Mr.  Wriford  is  smiling  also. 

"  She's  such  a  bright  one,  our  Essie,"  says  Mr.  Bickers. 

"  You  must  be  very  fond  of  her,"  says  Mr.  Wriford  — 
"You  and  Mrs.  Bickers;"  and  Mr.  Bickers  replies 
simply:  "  Why,  I  reckon  our  Essie  is  all  the  world  to 
us." 


II 

Mr.  Wriford  suits  Mr.  Pennyquick.  Mr.  Penny- 
quick,  indeed,  as  Mr.  Wriford  finds,  is  suited  by  any- 
body and  anything  that  permits  him  leisure  in  which 
to  nurse  his  ailment.  His  ailment  requires  rest  which 
he  takes  all  day  long  on  the  sofa  in  his  study;  and  his 
ailment  requires  divers  cordials  which  he  keeps  handily 
within  reach  in  long  bottles  under  the  sofa.  He  is  an 
outdoor  man,  as  he  tells  Mr.  Wriford  when  Mr.  Wriford 
comes  into  the  study  on  some  inquiry.  He  is  all  for 
the  open  air  and  for  sports;  he  only  missed  a  double 
Blue  at  Cambridge  —  Rugby  football  and  cross-country 
running  —  through  rank  favouritism,  and  he  can't 
bear  to  be  seen  taking  physic.  To  look  around  his 
room,  says  he,  you'd  never  think  he  was  a  regular  drug- 
shop  inside  owing  to  these  rotten  doctors,  would  you? 


272  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Not  a  bottle  of  the  muck  to  be  seen  anywhere.  That's 
because,  says  he,  his  breath  exuding  the  muck  in  pun- 
gent volumes,  he  hides  the  bottles  through  sheer  sen- 
sitiveness. He's  feeling  a  wee  bit  brighter  this  after- 
noon, thank  goodness,  and  if  Wriford,  like  a  good  chap, 
would  just  start  the  First  Form  in  their  Caesar  he'll 
be  in  in  about  two  ticks  and  take  them  over. 

Poor  fellow,  he  never  does  manage  to  get  in  in  two 
ticks  or  in  any  more  considerable  circumference  of  the 
clock.  Mr.  Wriford,  as  he  closes  the  study  door,  hears 
the  chink  of.  bottle  and  glass  and  knows  that  the  open- 
air  man  will  breathe  no  other  air  than  that  of  his  room 
until  he  is  able  to  grip  his  malady  sufficiently  to  stagger 
up  to  bed. 

The  trial  week,  indeed,  is  not  many  days  old  before 
Mr.  Wriford  obtains  a  pretty  clear  comprehension  of 
the  state  of  affairs  at  the  Tower  House  and  the  repu- 
tation of  its  Headmaster.  "Penny quick!  Whisky- 
quick,  I  call  him,"  says  Essie;  and  though  her  mother 
reproves  this  levity,  and  though  ill-natured  gossip  has 
no  exercise  in  the  Bickers'  estabUshment,  even  the  cert, 
plumber  and  his  wife  admit  that  the  school  is  not  what 
it  was,  and  speak  of  a  time  when  there  were  forty  or 
fifty  boys  and  several  resident  masters.  There  are  only 
twenty-four  boys  now  —  all  boarders.  There  are  no 
day-boarders.  The  town  knows  its  Mr.  Pennyquick; 
and  the  time  cannot  be  far  distant  when  the  tradesmen 
in  different  parts  of  the  county,  now  attracted  by  the 
past  reputation  of  this  "  School  for  the  Sons  of  Gentle- 
men," also  will  know  him  for  what  he  is.  Six  boys 
left  the  Tower  House  at  the  end  of  the  previous  term; 
five  are  leaving  at  the  end  of  this.  They  are  sorry  to 
go,  Mr.  Wriford  finds,  and  at  first  rather  wonders  at 


TRIAL  OF  MR.   WRIFORD  273 

the  fact.  But  the  reason  is  clear  before  even  the  trial 
week  is  out.  The  reason  is  that  these  twenty-four  young 
Sons  of  Gentlemen,  dejected-looking  as  he  had  seen 
them  at  play  when  he  accosted  Mr.  Pennyquick,  are 
dejected  also  in  spirit  —  morally  abased,  that  is  to  say, 
partly  as  coming  from  homes  too  snobbish  to  commit 
them  to  the  rough  and  tumble  of  local  elementary  or 
grammar  schools,  and  partly  as  being  received  into 
the  atmosphere  emanated  by  their  Headmaster  at  the 
Tower  House.  They  like  the  school.  It  suits  them, 
and  therefore,  wiser  than  they  should  be,  they  carry 
no  tales  to  their  parents.  They  like  the  school.  They 
like  the  utter  slackness  and  slovenliness  of  the  place. 
There  is  no  discipline.  There  is  scarcely  a  pretence 
of  education.  They  wash  in  the  mornings  not  till  after 
they  are  dressed,  Mr.  Wriford  finds,  and  they  do  not 
appear  to  wash  again  all  day.  They  are  thoroughly 
afraid  of  Mr.  Pennyquick,  but  he  scarcely  ever  visits 
them,  leaving  them  now  entirely  to  Mr.  Wriford  as 
formerly  he  left  them  to  Mr.  Wriford's  predecessors 
who  seemed  to  have  been  much  of  a  habit  of  mind  and 
character  with  themselves.  Domestic  arrangements 
are  looked  after  by  Mr.  Pennyquick 's  mother  who  is 
a  Uttle,  frightened  grey  wisp  of  a  woman  with  hands 
that  shake  like  her  son's,  but  shake  for  him  and  be- 
cause of  him,  Mr.  Wriford  discovers,  not  as  a  result  of 
similar  ailment  and  remedy.  She  adores  her  son.  She 
is  terrified  of  him.  She  is  terrified  for  him.  She  sees 
his  livelihood  and  his  manhood  crumbling  away,  simul- 
taneously and  disastrously  swift,  and  what  she  can 
do,  by  befoolment  of  parents  in  correspondence  relative 
to  her  son's  ill-health  and  their  own  son's  happiness 
and  success,  by  pathetic  would-be  befoolment  of  Mr. 


274  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Wriford  on  the  same  counts,  and  by  lenient  treatment  of 
the  pupils,  that  does  she  daily  and  hourly  to  avert 
the  doom  she  sees. 


in 

Within  the  first  days  of  the  trial  week  Mr.  Wriford's 
duties  fall  into  a  regular  routine.  This  is  his  trial  week, 
his  temporary  week,  a  week  in  which  he  comes  to  his 
duties  overwrought,  shaken,  uncertain  and,  thus  con- 
ditioned, is  wretched  in  his  performance  of  them. 
Shortly  before  nine  he  presents  himself  at  Tower  House. 
The  boys  are  wandering  dejectedly  about  the  play- 
ground. He  passes  nervously  through  them  —  they 
do  not  raise  their  caps  —  and  hides  from  them  in  the 
schoolroom  till  the  hour  strikes  on  a  neighbouring 
church  clock.  Then  Mr.  Wriford  rings  a  large  hand- 
bell, and  the  boys  drift  in  at  their  leisure  and  take  their 
places  on  the  benches.  Sometimes,  before  Mr  Wriford 
has  finished  ringing,  Mr.  Pennyquick,  in  gown  and 
untasselled  mortar-board,  comes  charging  across  the 
playground  from  the  house,  and  there  is  then  an  alarmed 
stampede  on  the  part  of  the  boys  to  get  in  before  him 
or  to  crowd  in  immediately  upon  his  heels.  Sometimes 
there  is  a  very  long  wait  before  the  appearance  of  the 
Headmaster;  and  Mr.  Wriford,  nervously  irresolute 
as  to  whether  to  ring  again  or  to  begin  school  without 
him,  stands  wretched  and  self-conscious  at  his  raised 
desk  while  the  boys  titter  and  whisper,  or  throw  paper 
pellets,  or  look  at  him  and  —  he  knows  —  titter  and 
whisper  at  his  expense.  This  is  his  trial  week,  his 
temporary  week.  He  is  much  overwrought  in  body  and 
in  mind.    He  does  not  know  what  authority  he  should 


TRIAL  OF  MR.  WRIFORD  275 

show  or  how  to  show  it.  He  hesitates  till  too  late  to 
interfere  with  one  outburst  of  horse-play  or  of  giggling. 
At  the  next  he  hesitates  in  doubt  as  to  whether,  having 
overlooked  the  former,  he  can  attempt  to  subdue  this. 
While  he  hesitates,  and  while  the  noise  increases,  and 
while  the  humiliation  and  wretchedness  it  causes  him 
increase  —  in  the  midst  of  all  this  Mr.  Pennyquick 
charges  in.  Mr.  Pennyquick  is  either  unshaved  and 
looking  the  worse  for  it;  or  he  has  shaved  and  has  cut 
himself  and  dabs  angrily  at  little  tufts  of  cotton  wool 
that  decorate  his  chin. 

"Anderson!"  barks  Mr.  Pennyquick,  seizing  the 
roll-call  book  and  a  pencil  but  not  looking  at  the  one 
or  using  the  other.  "  Adsum,"  responds  Anderson; 
and  Mr.  Pennyquick  barks  through  the  roll,  which  he 
knows  by  heart,  much  as  if  he  were  a  sheep-dog  with 
each  boy  a  sheep  and  each  name  a  bark  or  a  bite  in 
pursuit  of  it.  He  does  not  wait  for  responses.  He 
barks  along  in  a  jumble  of  explosions,  interspersed  with 
a  jumble  of  squeaked  replies;  punctuated  at  intervals, 
as  if  it  were  part  of  the  roll,  by  a  very  much  louder  bark 
in  the  form  of  a  fierce  "  SPEAK  UP!  "  and  concluded 
by  a  rush  without  pause  into  prayers  —  Mr.  Pennyquick 
plumping  suddenly  upon  his  knees,  much  as  if  the  sheep- 
dog had  suddenly  hurled  itself  upon  the  flock,  and  the 
first  portion  of  the  devotions  being  lost  in  the  din  of 
his  pupils  extricating  themselves  from  their  desks  in 
order  to  follow  his  example,  much  as  if  the  flock  had 
responded  by  a  panic  stampede  in  every  direction. 

"  Samuel  Major,"  barks  Mr.  Pennyquick,  as  if  he 
were  biting  that  young  gentleman.  "  'Sum!  "  squeaks 
Samuel  Major,  as  if  he  were  bitten.  "  Minorsum- 
Smithsum  -  Stoopersum  -  Taylorsum  —  SPEAK    UP !  — 


276  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Tooveysum  -  Westsum  -  Whitesum  —  SPEAK  UP !  — 
Williamssum-Wintersum  -  Woodsum  -  Ourfatherchartin- 
heavenhallo'edbeth'name  .  .  .  Amen  —  SPEAK  UP!  — 
mightyanmosmercifulfathenv'ethynunworthyservants . . . 
Amen  — SPEAK  UP!" 

The  schoolroom  is  divided  by  a  red  baize  curtain 
into  two  parts.  The  scholars  are  divided  into  three 
forms  of  which  Form  One  is  the  highest.  Mr.  Penny- 
quick,  who  knows  the  time-table  of  lessons  by  heart 
just  as  he  knows  the  roll-call,  follows  the  last  Amen 
with  a  last  "  SPEAK  UP!  "  and  is  himself  followed  in 
haste  and  trepidation  by  the  members  of  Form  One 
as  he  jumps  from  his  knees  and  charges  through  the 
curtain  barking  "  Form  One.  Thursday.  Euclid. 
Blackboard.  Come  round  the  blackboard.  Last 
night's  prep?  " 

"  Twelfth  proposition,  sir,"  squeaks  the  boy  whose 
eye  he  has  caught. 

This  —  or  the  same  point  in  whatever  else  the  sub- 
ject may  be  —  invariably  marks  the  end  of  Mr.  Penny- 
quick's  early  morning  energy.  He  begins  to  draw  on 
the  blackboard  or  to  find  the  place  in  a  text-book.  The 
energy  goes,  or  the  recollection  of  his  medicine  begins, 
and  he  changes  his  mind  and  barks:  "  Revise  last 
night's  prep!  "  There  is  a  stampede  to  the  desks  and  a 
burying  in  books.  The  Headmaster  paces  the  room  be- 
tween the  wall  and  the  curtain,  barking  a  "WORK  UP! " 
at  intervals  and  hesitating  a  little  longer  each  time  he 
turns  at  the  curtain.  "  WORK  UP!  "  and  he  comes 
charging  through  towards  Mr.  Wriford  and  the  door. 
"  Keep  an  eye  on  Form  One,  Wriford.  Draw  the  cur- 
tain. I'm  not  quite  the  thing  this  morning.  Take  them 
on  for  me  if  I'm  not  back  in  ten  minutes,  will  you?    I 


TRIAL  OF  MR.   WRIFORD  277 

ought   to  be  in   bed,  you   know.     I  shan't  be  long. 
WORK  UP!  " 

He  is  gone.  He  rarely  appears  again.  If  he  appears 
it  is  when  clearly  he  is  not  quite  the  thing  and  is  only 
to  skirmish  a  few  times  up  and  down  the  schoolroom 
to  the  tune  of  "  WORK  UP!  WORK  UP!  "  or  to  show 
himself  on  the  playing-field,  bellow  "  PLAY  UP!  "  and 
betake  himself  again  to  the  treatment  of  his  com- 
plaint. 

He  is  gone.  Mr.  Wriford  is  left  with  all  the  three 
forms  in  his  charge.  It  is  his  trial  week.  He  does  not 
know  what  authority  he  should  show  or  how  to  show  it. 
He  does  not  know  what  has  been  learnt  or  what  is  being 
learnt,  and  he  is  cunningly  or  cheekily  frustrated  at 
every  attempt  to  discover  it.  In  whatever  way  he  at- 
tempts to  set  work  afoot  an  excuse  is  found  to  stop  him. 
By  one  boy  he  is  told  that  "  please,  sir,"  they  do  not  do 
this,  and  by  another  that  "  please,  sir,"  they  have  never 
done  the  other.  He  has  neither  sufficient  strength  of 
himself  nor  sufficient  certainty  of  his  position  to  insist. 
Without  advice,  without  support,  he  is  left  very  much 
at  the  mercy  of  the  three  forms,  and  they  show  him 
none.  While  he  tries  to  settle  one  form  it  is  under  the 
distractions  and  the  interruptions  of  the  other  two. 
When  he  turns  to  one  of  these  the  first  joins  the  third  in 
idleness  and  disorder.  At  eleven  o'clock  he  is  informed 
"  Please,  sir,  we  have  our  break  now,"  and  there  is  a 
stampede  for  the  door  without  awaiting  his  assent. 
Similarly  at  half-past  twelve,  when  morning  school  ends, 
and  similarly  again  at  four  and  at  half-past  seven,  which 
are  the  terminations  of  afternoon  school  and  of  evening 
preparation.  There  is  no  asking  his  permission.  His 
position  is  exactly  summarised  by  this  —  that  the  boys 


278  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

know  the  rules  and  customs,  he  does  not;  and  further 
by  this  —  that  while  he  remains  miserably  uncertain  of 
the  extent  of  his  authority  and  of  how  he  should  assert 
it,  they,  by  that  very  uncertainty,  well  estimate  its  lim- 
its and  hourly,  with  each  advantage  gained,  more  nar- 
rowly confine  it,  more  openly  defy  him. 

IV 

At  one  o'clock  there  is  lunch.  Sometimes  Mr.  Penny- 
quick  is  present  as  the  boys  assemble,  and  then  they 
assemble  in  timid  silence  and  eat  with  due  regard  to 
manners.  Sometimes  he  does  not  appear  till  midway 
through  the  meal,  till  when  there  is  greedy  and  noisy 
and  slovenly  behaviour,  which  frightened-looking  Mrs. 
Pennyquick  attempts  occasionally  to  check  with  a 
timid:  "  Hush,  boys,"  or  upon  which  she  looks  with 
nervously  indulgent  smiles.  There  is  painfully  evident 
in  all  her  deaHngs  with  the  boys  a  dread  amounting  to 
a  lively  terror  that  anything  shall  be  done  to  displease 
them.  Mr.  Wriford  soon  realises  that  her  hourly  fear 
is  of  a  boy  writing  home  anything  that  may  lead  to 
parental  inquiry  and  thence  to  the  disclosure  of  her 
son's  affliction.  In  out-of-school  hours  she  frequently 
visits  the  schoolroom  and  looks  anxiously  at  any  boy 
who  may  be  engaged  in  writing.  Mr.  Wriford  at  first 
wonders  why.  He  understands  when  one  day,  passing 
behind  a  boy  thus  occupied,  she  stops  and  says:  "  Wri- 
ting home,  Charlie?  That's  a  good  boy.  Do  tell  your 
father  that  Mr.  Pennyquick  only  this  morning  was  tell- 
ing me  what  a  good  boy  you  are  at  your  lessons  and  how 
well  you  are  getting  on.  Write  a  nice  letter,  dear. 
Would  you  like  to  come  with  me  a  minute  and  see  if 


TRIAL   OF   MR.   WRIFORD  279 

I  can  find  some  sweeties  in  my  cupboard?  Come  along, 
then." 

With  h'ke  purpose  it  is  in  fearful  apprehension  that 
she  watches  her  son's  face  and  his  every  movement  when 
he  is  at  the  luncheon  table.  Mr.  Wriford  sees  her  look 
up  with  face  in  agony  of  misgiving  when  the  Head- 
master comes  in  late,  sees  her  eyes  ever  upon  him  in 
constant  dread  as  he  sits  opposite  her  at  the  head  of 
the  table.  There  does  not  appear  great  cause  for  nerv- 
ousness. As  a  rule  the  Headmaster  sits  glowering  and 
glum  and  fires  off  no  more  than,  his  own  plate  being 
empty,  an  occasional  "EAT  UP!"  Sometimes  he  is 
boisterously  cheerful.  Whatever  his  mood  he  never 
omits  one  very  satisfactory  tribute  to  his  own  prin- 
ciples in  which  his  mother  joins  very  happily  and  im- 
pressively. It  takes  this  form.  Immediately  Mr. 
Pennyquick  sits  down  he  calls  in  a  very  loud  voice  for 
the  water  to  be  passed  to  him.  He  then  fills  his  glass 
from  such  a  great  height  as  to  make  all  the  boys  laugh, 
then  drinks,  then  sets  down  the  tumbler  with  a  sharp 
rap,  and  then  says  to  Mr.  Wriford:  "  I  don't  know  if 
you're  a  beer-drinker,  Wriford,  but  I'm  afraid  we  can't 
indulge  you  here.  I  never  touch  anything  but  water 
myself.  I  attribute  every  misery,  every  failure  in  life, 
to  drink,  and  I  will  allow  it  in  no  shape  or  form  beneath 
my  roof.  I  can  give  no  man  a  better  motto  than  my  own 
motto:   Stick  to  Water!" 

Mr.  Pennyquick  then  drinks  again  with  great  impress- 
iveness,  and  Mrs.  Pennyquick  at  once  cries:  "  Boys, 
listen  to  that !  Always  remember  what  Mr.  Pennyquick 
says  and  always  say  it  was  Mr.  Pennyquick  who  told 
you.  Stick  to  Water  is  Mr.  Pennyquick's  motto,  and 
he  never,  never  allows  drink  in  any  shape  or  form  be- 


28o  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

neath  his  roof.  Why,  do  you  know  —  I  must  tell  them 
this,  dear  —  a  doctor  once  ordered  Mr.  Pennyquick 
just  a  small  glass  of  wine  once  a  day,  and  Mr.  Penny- 
quick  said  to  him:  '  Doctor,  I  know  I'm  very  ill;  but 
if  wine  is  the  only  thing  to  save  me,  then,  doctor,  I  must 
die,  for  wine  I  do  not  and  will  not  touch.'  " 

All  eyes  in  great  admiration  on  this  unflinching  cham- 
pion of  hydropathy,  who  modestly  concludes  the  scene 
with  a  loud:   ''EAT  UP!" 

V 

Afternoon  school,  in  its  idleness,  inattention,  and  in- 
discipline, is  a  repetition  of  the  morning.  Preparation 
from  six  to  half-past  seven  again  discovers  irresolution, 
uncertainty  and  wretchedness  set  in  the  midst  of  those 
who  by  every  device  increase  it  and  advantage  them- 
selves from  it.  At  four  o'clock  it  is  Mr.  Wriford's  duty 
to  keep  an  eye  on  the  boys  while  they  disport  them- 
selves in  the  field  where  he  had  first  seen  them ;  at  half- 
past  five  is  tea;  at  shortly  before  eight  Mr.  Wriford  is 
making  his  way  to  where  supper  awaits  in  the  cheerful 
parlour  behind  the  little  shop  of  the  cert,  plumber. 

Thither  he  goes  through  the  darkness;  and,  as  one  in 
darkness  that  gropes  for  light,  can  see  no  light,  and 
dreads  the  sudden  leap  of  some  assault,  so  trembles  he 
among  the  dark  oppressions  of  his  mind. 

These  are  evenings  of  early  summer,  and  they  have 
early  summer's  dusky  veils  draped  down  from  starry 
skies.  Her  pleasant  scents  they  have,  her  gentle  airs, 
her  after-hush  of  all  her  daylight  choirs.  They  but 
enfever  Mr.  Wriford.  Her  young  nights,  these,  that 
not  arrest  her  days  but  softly  steal  about  her,  finger  on 


TRIAL  OF  MR.  WRIFORD  281 

lip  attend  her  while  she  sleeps,  then  snatch  their  filmy 
coverlets  while  eastward  she  rubs  her  smiling  eyes, 
springs  from  her  slumber,  breaks  into  music  all  her 
morning  hymns,  and  up  and  all  about  in  sudden  radiance 
rides,  rides  in  maiden  loveliness.    Ah,  not  for  him! 

These  are  young  nights  that  greet  him  as  he  leaves 
the  school.  In  much  affliction  he  cries  out  upon  their 
stilly  peace.  Look,  here  that  new  year  in  summer  is, 
her  peace,  her  happiness  attained,  that  from  the  windows 
of  the  ward  at  Pendra  he  had  watched  blown  here  and 
there,  mocked,  trampled  on,  caught  by  the  throat  and 
thrust  beneath  the  iron  ground  in  variance  with  win- 
ter's jealousy.  In  her  he  had  envisaged  his  own  stress. 
Look,  here  she  reigns  in  happy  peace,  in  ordered  quiet: 
he? 

He  moans  a  little  as  he  walks.  There  is  something 
in  life  that  he  has  missed,  and  to  its  discovery  he 
can  bring  no  more  than  this  —  that  it  rests  not  in 
violent  disregard  of  what  happens  to  him  or  what  he 
does,  for  that  he  has  proved  empty;  nor  rests  in  the 
ease  that,  by  communication  with  London,  might  be 
his,  for  that  inflicts  return  to  the  old  self,  hatred  and 
fear  of  whom  had  driven  him  away.  Where  then?  And 
then  it  is  he  moans.  His  mind  presents  him  none  but 
these  alternatives;  his  mind,  when  miserably  he  rejects 
them,  threateningly  turns  them  upon  him  in  forms  of 
fear.  "  Well,  you  have  got  to  live,"  his  mind  threatens 
him.  "  To-morrow  you  shall  perhaps  be  turned  out 
from  this  post  at  the  school.  You  will  have  to  face  anew 
some  means  of  life;  you  will  have  to  suffer  what  has  to 
be  suffered  in  that  part;  face  men  and  submit  to  their 
treatment  of  such  as  you,  or  face  them  and  find  fierce- 
ness sufficient  to  defy  them." 


282  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  No,  no!  "  he  cries.  "  No,  no!  "  He  fears  his  powers 
of  endurance,  fears  that  beneath  those  trials  he  will  be 
driven  back  to  where  is  turned  upon  him  the  other 
threat.  "  Well,  you  must  go  back,"  his  thoughts 
threaten  him.  "  Money  and  comfort  await  you  in 
London  for  your  asking.  You  must  go  back  to  what 
you  were.  Live  at  ease  in  seclusion,  if  you  will;  ah, 
with  your  old  way  of  life  to  tell  you  hourly  that  now 
it  has  you  chained  —  that  now  you  have  tried  escape, 
proved  it  impossible,  and  never  again  can  escape  it!  " 

He  cries  aloud:  "  No,  no!  "  He  moans  for  his  abject 
hopelessness.  He  trembles  for  his  fears  at  these  his 
threats.  Under  his  misery  he  wanders  away  from  the 
direction  of  the  little  plumber's  shop,  hating  to  enter 
it  and  to  its  brightness  expose  his  suffering;  under  his 
fears  he  hastens  to  it,  clinging  to  this  present  occupa- 
tion lest,  losing  it,  one  of  the  threats  that  threaten  liim 
unsheaths  its  sword  upon  him. 

VI 

When,  by  these  vacillations,  he  is  late  for  the  supper 
hour,  Essie  will  be  at  the  shop  door  watching  for 
him. 

"  Well,  aren't  you  half  late,  though!  "  cries  Essie.  "  I 
was  jus'  goin'  to  dish  up.  Oh,  you  lodgers,  you  know, 
you're  fair  cautions!  " 

"  I  was  kept  late,"  he  says. 

"  Well,  you  weren't  half  walking  slow  when  you  come 
round  the  corner,  though."  She  sees  his  face  more 
clearly  in  the  light  of  the  shop  and  she  says:  ''Oh, 
dear,  you  don't  look  half  tired!  My  steak-and-kidney 
pudding,  that's  what  you  want!    Here  he  is,  Dad!    Get 


TRIAL  OF  MR.   WRIFORD  283 

his  slippers,  Mother?  That  old  Whiskyquick's  been  fair 
tiring  him  out!  " 

She  runs  to  the  kitchen  and  in  a  minute  calls  out: 
"  All  ready?  Oh,  it's  cooked  a  fair  treat!  "  She  bears 
in  the  steaming  steak-and-kidney  pudding,  sets  it  on  the 
table,  but  stops  while  above  the  bubbling  crust  she 
poises  her  knife  and  watches  it  with  her  little  twitches 
of  her  lips  and  with  her  sparkling  eyes. 

"  Come,  Essie,"  says  Mrs.  Bickers. 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  funny,  though,"  says  Essie,  "  all  bub- 
bling and  squeaking!    Let's  have  a  laugh!  " 


CHAPTER  IV 

MARTYRDOM  OF  MASTER  CUPPER 


It  is  by  a  very  surprising  and  extraordinary  event 
that,  from  the  abyss  of  wretchedness,  irresolution  and 
humiHation  of  the  trial  week  at  Tower  House  School, 
Mr.  Wriford  finds  himself  lifted  to  the  plane  of  its  ex- 
tension by  week  and  week  of  ever  increasing  stability 
and  assurance;  finds  himself  suiting  Mr.  Penny  quick; 
finds  himself  in  a  new  phase  in  which  there  develop  new 
emotions. 

This  event  is  no  less  remarkable,  no  less  apparently 
cataclysmal  to  his  position  in  the  school  and  to  the 
school  itself,  than  a  tremendous  box  upon  the  ear  which, 
early  in  his  second  week,  Mr.  Wriford  administers  to  a 
First  Form  pupil  whose  name  is  Cupper  and  whose  face 
is  fat  and  dark  and  cunning. 

Morning  school,  very  shortly  after  the  Headmaster 
with  a  loud  "  WORK  UP!  "  has  left  his  class  "  for  ten 
minutes,"  is  the  hour  of  this  amazement.  A  week's 
experience  of  the  new  assistant-master  has  opened  to 
the  pupils  unbounded  lengths  of  impertinence  and  in- 
discipline to  which  they  can  go;  and  the  door  has  no 
sooner  banged  behind  Mr.  Pennyquick  than  they  pro- 
ceed to  explore  them. 

A  favourite  form  of  this  sport  is  to  badger  Mr.  Wri- 

284 


MARTYRDOM   OF   MASTER   CUPPER     285 

ford  with  requests,  and  it  is  done  the  more  noisily  and 
impertinently  by  strict  observation  of  the  rule  estab- 
lished in  all  schools  on  the  point.  At  once,  that  is  to 
say,  Mr.  Penny  quick  ha\'ing  left  the  room,  there  up- 
rises a  forest  of  arms,  a  universal  snapping  of  fingers 
and  thumbs,  and  a  chorus  that  grows  to  a  babel  of: 
'' Please,  sir!    Please,  sir!    Please,  sir!  " 

One  "  Please,  sir  "  is  that  there  is  no  ink,  another  to 
borrow  a  knife  to  sharpen  a  pencil,  another  to  find  a 
book,  another  to  open  a  window,  another  to  shut  it. 
Mr.  Wriford  tries  to  pick  out  a  particular  request  and 
to  answer  it;  he  calls  for  silence  and  is  responded  to 
with  louder  "  Please,  sirs!  "  He  thinks  to  stop  the  din 
by  ignoring  it,  turns  his  back  upon  the  noise  and  cleans 
the  blackboard,  and  this  is  the  signal  for  changing  the 
note  to  a  general  wail  of:  "Oh,  please,  sir!  —  Oh, 
please,  sir!  —  Oh,  please,  sir!  " 

Master  Cupper  carries  the  sport  to  a  length  hitherto 
unattempted.  Master  Cupper  rises  to  his  feet  and  with 
snapping  finger  and  thumb  calls  very  loudly:  "  Please, 
sir!    Please,  sir!  " 

"  Sit  down,  Cupper!  " 

"  But,  please,  sir;  please,  sir!  " 

"  Sit  down!  "  and  Mr.  Wriford  turns  again  to  the 
blackboard.  He  is  quite  aware,  though  he  cannot  see, 
what  is  happening.  He  knows  that  Cupper  has  left 
his  place  and  is  approaching  him  with  uplifted  hand  and 
persistent  "  Please,  sir!  "  He  knows  that  Cupper  is 
close  behind  him  and,  from  the  laughter,  that  doubtless 
he  is  misbehaving  immediately  behind  his  back.  H^e 
turns  and  catches  Cupper  with  fingers  extended  from 
his  nose.  He  does  not  know  w^hether  to  pretend  he  has 
not  seen  it,  or  how,  if  he  should  not  overlook  it,  to  deal 


286  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

with  it.  His  face  works  while  he  tries  to  decide.  Cupper 
should  have  been  warned.  Cupper  is  not.  Cupper's 
fat  face  grins  impudently,  and  Cupper  says:  "  Please, 
sir." 

"  Go  and  sit  down,"  says  Mr.  Wriford,  trying  not 
to  speak  miserably,  trying  to  speak  sternly. 

"  But,  please,  sir!  " 

And  thereupon,  as  hard  as  he  can  hit,  stinging  his 
own  hand  with  the  force  of  the  blow,  putting  into  it  all 
he  has  suffered  in  this  room  during  the  week,  Mr.  Wri- 
ford hits  Master  Cupper  so  that  there  is  a  tolerable  in- 
terval in  which  Master  Cupper  reels  somewhere  into 
the  middle  of  next  month  before  Master  Cupper  can 
so  much  as  howl. 

Then  Master  Cupper  howls.  Master  Cupper,  hand 
to  face,  opens  his  mouth  to  an  enormous  cavern  and 
discharges  therefrom  four  separate  emotions  in  one  im- 
mense, shattering,  wordless  blare  of  terror  and  of  fury, 
of  anguish  and  of  surprise.  Scarcely  all  the  boys  shout- 
ing together  could  have  surpassed  this  roar  of  the 
stricken  Cupper,  and  they  sit  aghast,  and  Mr.  Wriford 
stands  aghast,  while  tremendously  it  comes  bellowing 
out  of  the  Cupper  throat.  Then  bawls  Cupper:  "I'll 
tell  Mr.  Pennyquick!  "  and  out  and  away  he  charges, 
roaring  through  playground  and  into  house  as  he  goes 
as  roars  a  rocket  into  the  night.  Fainter  and  more  dis- 
tant comes  the  roar,  then,  true  to  its  rocket  character, 
and  to  the  consternation  of  those  who  listen,  culminates 
in  a  mufBed  explosion  of  sound  and  in  a  moment  comes 
roaring  back  again  pursued  by  Mr.  Pennyquick  who 
also  roars  and  drives  it  before  him  with  blows  from  a 
cane. 

Woe  is   Cupper!     Cupper,   for  appreciation  of  this 


MARTYRDOM  OF  MASTER  CUPPER     287 

astounding  sequel,  must  be  followed  as,  hand  to  face, 
from  assistant-master  to  Headmaster  bellowing  he  goes. 
Blindly  the  stricken  Cupper  charges  through  the  study- 
door,  slips  on  the  mat,  and  blindly  charges  headlong 
into  Mr.  Pennyquick, 

Then  is  the  explosion  that  comes  mufHed  to  the  lis- 
tening schoolroom.  First  Cupper,  shot  head  first  into 
Mr.  Pennyquick's  waistcoat,  knows  that  his  head  is 
javishly  anointed  with  strongly  smelHng  medicine  which 
Mr.  Pennyquick  is  pouring  into  a  tumbler  from  a  very 
large  medicine  bottle  labelled  "  Three  Star  (old) ;  " 
next  that  his  unwounded  cheek  and  ear  have  suffered 
an  earthquake  compared  with  which  that  received  by 
their  fellows  from  Mr.  Wriford  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
caress;  next  that  with  a  bottle  and  a  broken  glass  he  is 
rolling  on  the  floor;  then,  most  horrible  of  all,  that  Mr. 
Pennyquick  is  springing  round  the  room  bellowing: 
"WHERE  CANE?  WHERE  CANE?  WHERE 
CANE?  " 

There  is  then  a  pandemonic  struggle  between  Mr. 
Pennyquick,  a  cupboard,  a  cataract  of  heterogeneous 
articles  which  pour  out  of  it  upon  him,  and  a  bashful 
cane  which  refuses  to  emerge;  and  there  is  finally  on 
the  part  of  Master  Cupper  a  ghastly  realisation  of  his 
personal  concern  in  tliis  terrifying  struggle  and  the 
part  for  which  he  is  cast  on  its  termination.  Invigorated 
thereby,  up  springs  Master  Cupper,  bawhng,  and 
plunges  for  the  door,  and  simultaneously  out  comes  the 
cane,  and  on  comes  Mr.  Pennyquick,  bawling,  and 
plunges  after  him.  Master  Cupper  takes  three  appall- 
ing cuts  of  the  cane  in  the  embarrassment  of  getting 
through  the  doorway,  two  at  each  turn  of  the  passages, 
a  shower  in  the  death-trap  offered  by  the  open  play- 


288  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

ground,  and  comes  galloping,  a  hand  to  each  side  of  his 
face,  into  the  shuddering  schoolroom,  bawling:  "  Save 
me!  Save  me!  "  and  leading  by  the  length  of  the  cane 
Mr.  Pennyquick,  with  flaming  face  and  streaming  gown, 
who  cuts  at  him  with  bellows  of:  "  FLOG  you!  FLOG 
you!  " 

The  circuit  of  the  schoolroom  is  thrice  described  with 
incredible  activity  on  the  part  of  Cupper,  and  with 
enormous  havoc  of  boys,  books,  forms,  and  blackboards 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Pennyquick.  The  air  is  filled  with 
dust,  impregnated  with  Three  Star  (old).  Finally, 
and  with  an  exceeding  bitter  cry.  Master  Cupper 
hurls  himself  beneath  a  desk  where  Mr.  Pennyquick 
first  ineffectually  slashes  at  him,  then  thrusts  at  him 
as  with  a  bayonet,  and  then,  to  the  great  horror  of  all, 
turns  his  attention  to  the  room  in  general.  Up  and 
down  the  rows  of  desks  charges  Mr.  Pennyquick,  hack- 
ing at  crouching  boys  with  immense  dexterity,  right  and 
left,  forehand  and  backhand,  as  a  trooper  among  infan- 
try; bellows  "  WORK  UP!  WORK  UP!  "  with  each 
slash,  and  with  a  final  cut  and  thrust  at  a  boy  endeav- 
ouring to  conceal  himself  behind  a  large  wall  map,  and 
a  final  roar  of  "WORK  UP!  "  disappears  in  a  whirl- 
wind of  streaming  gown  and  flashing  cane. 

II 

The  schoolroom  clock  has  not  altered  five  minutes 
between  the  first  roar  of  unhappy  Cupper,  tingling 
beneath  Mr.  Wriford's  hand,  and  the  sobbing  groans 
that  now  he  emits  crouching  beneath  his  sheltering 
desk.  Yet  in  that  period  the  whole  atmosphere  of  Tower 
House  School  is  drastically  and  permanently  changed. 


MARTYRDOM   OF  MASTER   CUPPER     289 

There  stands  in  his  place  the  assistant-master,  momen- 
tarily expecting  summary  dismissal,  yet,  while  to  antic- 
ipate it  he  debates  immediate  departure,  conscious  that 
the  whole  room  whose  butt  he  has  been  now  cowers 
beneath  his  eye  and  shudders  at  his  slightest  movement. 
There  tremble  on  their  benches  the  pupils  who  in  this 
appalling  manner  have  seen  first  the  iron  discipline  of 
their  assistant-master  and  next,  most  surprisingly  and 
most  horribly,  his  terrific  support  by  Mr.  Pennyquick. 
In  the  study  there  rocks  upon  his  feet  the  Headmaster 
endeavouring  to  drown  in  Three  Star  (old)  the  memory 
of  the  exhibition  he  has  given,  and  thinking  of  Mr. 
Wriford,  in  so  far  as  he  is  capable  of  coherent  thought, 
only  in  the  aspect  of  one  who  must  be  implored  to  keep 
the  school  together  while  the  outbreak  of  fury  is  ex- 
plained and  Hved  down  by  its  perpetrator  taking  to 
his  bed  and  his  mother  reporting  a  sudden  break- 
down. 

Unhappy  Cupper,  it  is  to  be  remarked,  martyred  in 
liis  poor  throbbing  flesh  for  the  production  of  this  new 
atmosphere,  is  directly  responsible  for  the  several  delu- 
sions on  which  it  is  in  large  measure  based,  in  that  he 
is  firmly  convinced  that  he  told  the  Headmaster  why 
he  was  come  howling  to  his  study  and  is  assured  there- 
fore that  it  was  the  reason,  not  the  manner,  of  his  entry 
that  earned  him  his  subsequent  flight  for  life  paid  for 
so  horribly  as  he  ran.  The  boys  believe  he  made  his 
appeal  and,  in  the  result  of  it,  are  tremblingly  resolved 
to  take  any  punishment  from  Mr.  Wriford  rather  than 
follow  Cupper's  example  of  inviting  Mr.  Pennyquick's 
interference.  Mr.  Wriford  believes  his  blow  was  re- 
ported and  awaits  dismissal  for  his  loss  of  temper.  And 
finaUy  it  is  the  belief  of  Mr.  Pennyquick  that  Cupper 


29©  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

made  a  wilful  and  groundless  entry  to  his  study  and 
that  he  was  surprised  thereby  into  a  violence  in  which 
(said  he  to  Three  Star  [old]  ):  "  God  alone  knows  what 
I  did." 

It  is  while  the  first  onset  of  these  thoughts  pursue 
their  several  victims  that  Master  Cupper,  under  terror 
of  his  own  portion  in  them,  creeps  snuffling  from  his 
hiding-place  to  his  seat;  and  to  his  own  seat  also,  on 
tiptoe,  very  timidly,  the  young  gentleman  who  had 
taken  shelter  behind  the  wall  map.  Mr.  Wriford  makes 
a  sudden  movement  with  the  intention  of  leaving  the 
Tower  House  before  he  is  dismissed  from  it.  A  convul- 
sion passes  through  the  pupils.  They  glue  their  heads 
above  their  books.  Immediately  they  are  in  a  paroxysm 
of  study,  each  separate  minute  of  which  surpasses  in 
intensity  the  combined  labours  of  any  week  the  Tower 
House  has  known  since  its  Headmaster  was  forced  to 
take  to  medicine. 

Mr.  Wriford  remains  in  his  seat  to  watch  this  extraor- 
dinary scene.  The  hour  of  the  recreation  interval 
comes  and  goes.  Not  a  boy  so  much  as  lifts  his  head. 
The  close  of  morning  school  shows  itself  upon  the  clock. 
Not  a  boy  moves.  This  is  the  serenest  period  Mr.  Wri- 
ford has  known  since  ever  the  train  from  London  brought 
him  here  a  fortnight  ago.  It  is  a  grim  eye  he  sets  upon 
the  devoted  heads  of  his  toiling  pupils.  He  hates  them. 
For  what  they  have  made  him  endure  in  these  days  he 
hates  them  one  and  all,  wholly  and  severally.  He  has  a 
relish  of  their  desperate  industry  beneath  his  observa- 
tion. He  has  a  relish  that  is  an  actual  physical  pleasure 
in  this  utter  silence,  in  this  feeling  that  here  —  for  the 
fi.rst  time  since  God  alone  knows  when  —  he  is  where 
he  rules  and  is  not  hunted.    He  leans  back  in  his  chair 


MARTYRDOM   OF   MASTER   CUPPER     291 

in  sheer  enjoyment  of  it.  He  closes  his  eyes  and  dehghts 
that  he  is  utterly  still. 

The  luncheon  bell  rings.  Mr.  Wriford  goes  to  the 
door  and  opens  it  and  stands  by  it.  Very  quietly,  file 
by  file  from  the  rows  of  desks,  with  bent  heads  and  with 
the  gentle  movements  of  well  trained  lambs,  the  boys 
pass  out  before  him. 

He  follows  their,  and,  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Penny- 
quick  appearing,  presides  at  a  meal  over  which  there 
broods,  as  it  were,  a  solemn  and  religious  hush. 


CHAPTER  V 
Essie's  idea  of  it 


It  is  Essie  who  helps  Mr.  Wriford  carry  forward  the 
advantage  that  Master  Cupper  has  gained  him.  Mr. 
Pennyquick  did  not  show  himself  throughout  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day.  The  expected  dismissal  for  having 
struck  Master  Cupper  —  awaited  in  the  grim  satisfac- 
tion of  grovellingly  docile  pupils  throughout  afternoon 
school  and  evening  preparation  —  is  deferred,  therefore, 
as  Mr.  Wriford  supposes,  until  the  morrow ;  and  in  the 
morning  he  finds  himself  mentioning  it  to  Essie. 

He  is  the  reverse  of  talkative  with  the  Bickers  house- 
hold. The  oppression  that  nightly  he  brings  home  from 
Tower  House  sits  heavily  upon  him  in  the  bright  little 
parlour,  intensified,  as  on  his  first  evening  there,  rather 
than  relieved  by  it.  He  always  dreads  the  ordeal  of 
the  Bible  reading.  He  always  escapes  to  bed  immedi- 
ately it  is  over.  At  breakfast  he  has  excuse  to  hurry 
over  his  meal  and  hurry  from  the  house.  On  this  morn- 
ing, however,  Essie  comes  to  breakfast  dressed  in  hat 
and  jacket.  She  is  going  to  spend  the  day  with  friends 
in  a  neighbouring  town.  She  has  to  start  for  her  train 
as  Mr.  Wriford  starts  for  his  work  and,  as  his  way  lies 
past  the  railway  station,  "  Why,  we'll  jus'  skedaddle 
together,"  says  Essie. 

292 


ESSIE'S   IDEA  OF  IT  293 

He  cannot  refuse.  Facing  the  dismissal  he  antici- 
pates, he  more  than  ever  desires  to  be  alone;  but  Essie 
takes  their  companionship  on  the  way  for  granted,  and 
presently  is  chattering  by  his  side  of  whom  she  is  going 
to  see,  and  what  a  long  time  it  is  since  she  has  seen  them, 
and  appearing  not  at  all  to  notice  that  he  gives  her  no 
response.  She  is  wonderfully  gay  and  excited,  her 
cheeks  flushed,  and  her  eyes  even  more  radiant  than 
commonly  they  sparkle.  She  has  new  gloves,  which 
she  shows  him,  turning  the  hand  next  him  this  way  and 
that  for  their  better  display  and  announcing  them  "  not 
half  a  bargain  at  one-an'-eleven-three,  considering  I 
never  had  this  dress  then  to  match  'em  by;  "  and  she 
has  a  linen  coat  and  skirt  of  lilac  shade  and  a  hat  of 
blue  flowers  in  which  she  looks  quite  noticeably  pretty; 
and  she  looks  at  herself  in  all  the  shop  windows  as  she 
chatters  and  appears  to  be  more  delighted  than  ever 
at  what  she  sees  reflected  there. 

"  Don't  think  I  shall  miss  the  train,  do  you?  "  says 
Essie.  "  Takes  me  a  long  time  to  say  good-bye  to 
Mother  and  Dad  through  not  liking  leavin'  them  alone  all 
day.  Don't  think  it's  very  unkind,  do  you,  jus'  once  in 
a  way,  you  know?  You'd  never  think  how  I  hate  doin' 
it,  though." 

These  are  questions,  in  place  of  chattering  informa- 
tion, and  Mr.  Wriford  feels  he  must  come  out  of  his 
own  thoughts  to  answer  them.  He  chooses  the  first 
and  tells  her  —  his  first  words  since  they  left  the  shop : 
"  You've  plenty  of  time.  It  takes  exactly  nine  minutes 
to  the  station.    I  notice  it  by  the  big  clock  every  day." 

"  Well,  that's  safe  as  the  Bank  of  England  then," 
declares  Essie.  "  Plenty  of  time,"  and  she  takes  advan- 
tage of  it  to  stop  deliberately  for  a  moment  and  twitch 


294  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

her  veil  in  front  of  a  tobacconist's  shining  window. 
Mr.  Wriford  pauses  for  her,  and  she  turns  dancing  eyes 
to  him  when  she  has  settled  her  veil  to  her  Hking.  "  Isn't 
it  funny,  though,  seeing  yourself  with  pipes  and  all  in 
your  face?    Let's  have  a  laugh!  " 

He  does  not  join  her  in  the  merry  laugh  she  enjoys; 
and  suddenly  he  is  aware  that  she  is  regarding  him 
curiously,  and  then  that  she  is  making  the  first  personal 
remark  she  has  ever  addressed  to  him.  "  You  aren't 
half  one  of  the  solemn  ones,"  says  Essie. 

It  is  then  that  he  tells  her:  "  Well,  I'm  on  my  way 
to  be  dismissed.    There's  not  much  joke  in  that." 

Essie  gives  a  little  exclamation  and  stops  abruptly, 
her  face  all  concern.    "  Oh,  you  don't  say!  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.    Come  on." 

"  The  proper  sack?  " 

"  Come  along.    You'll  miss  your  train." 

"  Oh,  bother  the  old  train!  "  cries  Essie.  "  That's 
fair  done  it.    I  shan't  be  half  miserable  thinking  of  you." 

"  Why  should  you?  "  says  Mr.  Wriford  indifferently. 

She  replies:  "  Well,  did  you  ever!  Me  going  off  to 
enjoy  myself  and  thinking  of  you  getting  the  sack!  Oh, 
that  old  Whiskyquick,  he's  a  caution!  " 

''  But  there's  no  earthly  need  for  you  to  mind." 

"  Why,  of  course  there  is,"  says  Essie.  "  Especially 
with  me  going  off  on  a  beano  like  this.  Of  course  there 
is.  My  goodness,  I  know  what  it  is  for  a  lodger  when 
he  gets  the  sack!  Whyever  didn't  you  tell  us  before  — 
all  of  us?  Then  we  might  have  talked  it  over,  and  ten 
to  one  Dad  could  have  advised  you.  I've  seen  Dad  get 
a  lodger  out  of  a  mess  before  now.  Just  tell  me.  What- 
ever is  it  for?  " 

"  I  hit  one  of  the  boys." 


ESSIE'S  IDEA  OF  IT  295 

Essie's  eyes  wince  as  though  herself  she  felt  the 
blow.    ''Not  hard?" 

"  As  hard  as  ever  I  could." 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  says  Essie  reproachfully.  "  You  never 
ought  to  do  that,  you  know.  Just  a  slap  —  that's 
nothing.  I've  fetched  one  of  my  Sunday-school  boys 
a  slap  before  now.    But  losing  your  temper,  you  know!  " 

"  He  wanted  it,"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

"That's  what  you  think,"  says  Essie.  "Well, 
never  mind  about  that  now.     Just  tell  me." 

He  tells  her.  He  finds  himself  less  indifferent  to  her 
sympathy  as  he  proceeds.  He  finds  it  rather  a  relief 
to  be  telling  her  of  it  —  rather  pleasantly  novel  to  be 
telling  anybody  anything.  He  tells  her  from  the  mo- 
ment of  his  blow  at  Cupper,  and  why  the  blow  was 
struck,  to  the  furious  onset  of  Mr.  Pennyquick,  slash- 
ing among  the  boys  with  his  cane  —  the  humourous 
aspect  of  which  he  for  the  first  time  perceives  and 
laughs  at  —  and  he  finds  himself,  as  he  concludes, 
rather  leaning  towards  the  sympathy  he  expects. 

But  the  sympathy  is  not  for  him;  nor  does  Essie, 
who  usually  can  see  a  joke  in  nothing  at  all,  laugh  at 
Mr.  Pennyquick's  wild  gallop  among  his  pupils. 

"  Oh,  those  poor  boys!  "  says  Essie.  "  Don't  I  just 
feel  sorry  for  them!  " 

"  You  wouldn't  if  you  knew  them." 

"  Wouldn't  I,  though!  I  wish  I  had  half  your 
chance!  " 

He  asks  her  impatiently,  irritated  at  the  unexpected 
attitude  she  has  taken:   "  My  chance  at  what?  " 

"  Why,  your  chance  to  make  them  happy.  Why, 
they're  not  boys  at  all.  I  think  it  every  time  I  see 
them." 


296  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

"  No,  they're  little  fiends." 

"  That's  silly  talk,"  says  Essie  rather  sharply.  "  I 
daresay  you'd  be  a  fiend,  for  that  matter,  with  that 
old  toad  of  a  Whiskyquick  not  to  care  what  happens  to 
you  except  to  frighten  you  to  death." 

Mr.  Wriford  says  coldly:  "  I  didn't  know  we  were 
talking  about  the  boys.    You  asked  me  to  tell  you  —  " 

"  Oh,"  cries  Essie,  "  don't  you  get  a  crosspatch  now! 
I  know  it  was  about  your  sack  we  were  talking,  and  I  am 
sorry,  truly  and  reely  sorry.  But,  look  here,  I  don't 
believe  you'll  get  it,  you  know.  I  believe  old  Whisky- 
quick's  that  ashamed  of  himself  he  won't  show  his  face 
for  a  week.  An'  I  don't  beHeve  he  even  knows  you  hit 
that  poor  what's-his-name  —  Cupper?  —  so  there!  I 
believe  he  hit  him  for  disturbing  him,  and  I  daresay 
catching  him  drinking,  before  the  poor  little  fellow 
could  speak.    I  do  reely.    Look  here  —  " 

They  have  reached  the  station  and  Essie  stops  out- 
side the  booking-office.  "  Look  here,  I  tell  you  what 
there  is  to  it.  Don't  you  worry  about  the  sack.  Ten 
to  one  you  won't  get  it  till  he's  got  some  one  instead  of 
you,  anyway.  Just  you  don't  worry.  It  only  makes  it 
worse,  like  when  you're  going  to  have  a  tooth  out. 
You  see  if  you  can't  make  those  poor  boys  happy. 
Why,  you  know,  when  I  first  had  my  Sunday-school 
class,  oh,  they  were  cautions!  They'd  never  had  any 
one  to  be  kind  to  them,  jus'  hke  your  boys.  I  told  'em 
stories,  and  told  'em  games,  and  took  'em  a  walk  every 
time,  and  showed  'em  things,  and  you'd  never  beHeve 
how  good  they  are  now.  You  just  try.  I  mean  to  say, 
whatever's  the  good  of  anybody  if  you  don't  try  to 
make  other  folk  happy,  is  there?  Oh,  there's  my  train 
signalled.     Goo'-by.     I  shan't  half  think  how  you're 


ESSIE'S   IDEA  OF  IT  297 

getting  on.  I  say,  though  —  "  and  Essie,  who  has  been 
extraordinarily  grave  in  this  long  speech,  begins  to 
sparkle  in  her  eyes  again. 

"  Yes,"  says  Mr.  Wriford. 

"  You  haven't  got  a  minute  to  buy  my  ticket?  " 

"  I'll  get  your  ticket,  of  course." 

"  That's  fine."  She  counts  him  some  money  from 
her  purse.  "  Third  return  Wilton,  excursion.  Mind 
you  say  excursion.  One  and  tuppence.  Here  comes 
the  puflfer." 

Mr.  Wriford  says  "  excursion;  "  and  then  Essie,  by 
hanging  back  as  the  train  comes  in,  indicates  clearly 
enough  that  she  would  like  him  also  to  find  her  a  car- 
riage. When  she  is  in  and  leaning  from  the  window 
she  explains  the  reason  of  these  manoeuvres. 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  says  Essie  and  whispers:  "  You 
know,  I  Uke  people  to  see  me  with  a  young  man  to  fuss 
me  about." 

Mr.  Wriford 's  smile  is  the  first  expression  of  real 
amusement  he  has  known  in  many  long  months.  As 
the  train  begins  to  move  he  raises  his  hat.  "Oh,  thanks 
awfully,"  cries  Essie,  immensely  pleased.  "  Remember 
what  I  said.  I  shan't  half  think  how  you're  getting  on. 
Mind  you  remember!    Goo'-bye!    Goo'-bye!  " 

II 

He  remembers.  Mr.  Pennyquick's  manner  at  roll- 
call  and  prayers  distinctly  bears  out  all  three  of  Essie's 
conjectures,  and  that  helps  him  to  remember.  The 
Headmaster  charges  through  the  names  and  through  the 
devotions  even  more  rapidly  than  usual.  At  their 
termination  he  does  not  even  indulge  the  pretence  of 


298  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

taking  Form  One  in  a  lesson.  "  Amen  —  WORK  UP!  " 
concludes  Mr.  Pennyquick  and  turns  at  once  to  Mr. 
Wriford.  "  Can  you  possibly  take  them  all  this  morn- 
ing, Wriford?  Just  for  once.  I  absolutely  ought  to  be 
in  bed.  I'm  on  the  very  verge  of  a  breakdown.  You 
saw  what  happened  to  me  yesterday.  I  really  don't 
know  what  I'm  doing.  The  doctor  insists  on  a  Httle 
wine,  but  I'm  fighting  against  it.  Perhaps  I'm  wrong. 
But  you  know  my  principles.  If  you  could  just  look 
after  them  till  lunch."  He  strides  to  the  door,  opens  it, 
closes  it  again,  strides  back  and  glares  upon  his  pupils, 
strained  over  their  books.  "WORK  UP!  "  and  then 
more  threateningly,  more  hoarsely  than  ever:  "  WORK 
UP!  WORK  UP!  "  and  then  to  the  door  and  a  last 
"  WORK  UP!  "  and  then  discharges  himself  from  view 
as  abruptly  as  if  Three  Star  (old)  had  stretched  a  hand 
across  the  playground  and  grabbed  him  out. 

Thus  are  proved,  as  Mr.  Wriford  reflects,  seated  in 
the  shivering  silence  that  remains  after  the  Headmaster's 
disappearance,  two  of  Essie's  beliefs.  Mr.  Pennyquick 
is  obviously  ashamed  of  himself  —  apprehensive  of  the 
results  upon  his  boys  and  upon  his  assistant-master  of 
his  yesterday's  exhibition  and  seeking  by  greater  fierce- 
ness to  coerce  the  one  and  by  pitiable  excuses  to  cajole 
the  other;  obviously  also  he  projects  no  summary  meas- 
ures against  Mr.  Wriford  —  likely  enough,  indeed,  is 
ignorant  of  cause  of  offence.  There  remains  Essie's 
third  premise:  that  the  boys  are  wretched  and  to  be 
pitied;  and  with  it  her  advice  that  it  is  for  Mr.  Wriford 
to  make  them  happy.  He  remembers.  He  looks  on 
them,  cowed  before  him,  with  the  new  eyes  of  these 
instructions,  and  for  the  first  time  since  he  has  assumed 
his  position  here  sees  them,  not  as  little  fiends  who  have 


ESSIE'S   IDEA  OF  IT  299 

made  his  life  a  burden,  but  as  luckless  unfortunates 
whose  Kves  have  themselves  been  burdensome  under 
one  tyrant,  and  who  now  believe  themselves  delivered 
over  to  another. 

He  remembers.  He  remembers  Essie's  Sunday- 
school  boys  who  were  "  little  cautions  "  until  she  told 
'em  stories  and  showed  'em  games  and  took  'em 
for  walks  and  showed  'em  things;  and  suddenly 
Mr.  Wriford  sits  upright  and  says  briskly:  "  Look 
here!  " 

There  is  a  sharp  catching  at  breaths  all  about  the 
room,  a  nervous  jump  —  a  panic  apprehension,  clearly 
enough,  that  tliis  is  the  prelude  to  repetition  of  yester- 
day's violence.  It  makes  Mr.  Wriford  feel  very  sorry. 
He  remembers  Essie's  "  Poor  little  fellows.  I  don't 
feel  half  sorry  for  them."  He  contrasts  their  dejected 
and  aimless  and  sKpshod  and  now  frightened  ways 
with  his  own  bright  school-days.  He  gets  up  and  steps 
dowTi  from  the  platform  on  which  his  desk  is  raised  and 
stands  amongst  them,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  feeling 
curiously  confident  and  easy.  "  Look  here,"  says  Mr. 
Wriford,  "  let's  chuck  work  this  morning  and  have  a 
talk.  We  ought  to  be  jolly  good  pals,  you  know,  in- 
stead of  messing  about  like  we've  been  doing  ever  since 
I  came.  When  I  was  at  school  we  used  to  be  frightful 
pals  with  our  masters.  Of  course  we  couldn't  stick 
'em  in  Form  sometimes,  but  out  of  school  they  were 
just  like  one  of  us.  They  played  footer  and  all  that 
with  us,  and  the  great  thing  was  to  barge  them  like 
blazes,  especially  if  one  had  had  a  sock  over  the  ear 
like  poor  old  Cupper  there." 

First  surprise;  then  a  nervous  giggle  here  and  there; 
then  more  general  giggling;  now  all  turning  towards 


300  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Master  Cupper  (very  red  and  sheepish),  and  very  cheer- 
ful giggling  everywhere. 

Rather  jolly,  thinks  Mr.  Wriford,  and  proceeds: 
"  How  is  old  Cupper,  this  morning,  by  the  way?  Cup- 
per, you  and  I  ought  to  shake  hands,  you  know,"  and 
Mr.  Wriford  strolls  down  to  Master  Cupper,  and  they 
shake,  Master  Cupper  grinning  enormously.  "  That's 
all  right.  You  and  I  are  pals,  anyv/ay.  You  and  I 
versus  the  rest  in  future,  Cupper,  if  they  get  up  to  any 
of  their  larks.  You  were  a  silly  young  ass,  you  know, 
yesterday,  cocking  a  snook  at  me  behind  my  back. 
That's  absolutely  what  you'd  expect  a  Board  School 
kid  to  do.    What's  your  father,  Cupper?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  he's  an  auctioneer,"  says  Cupper. 

"  Auctioneer,  is  he?  Well,  you  look  out  he  doesn't 
sell  you  one  of  these  days,  my  boy,  if  you  go  cocking 
snooks  all  over  the  place." 

Immensely  delighted  laughter  at  this  brilliant  flash 
of  wit,  and  Mr.  Wriford  sits  easily  on  Cupper's  desk 
with  his  feet  on  the  form  before  him  and  goes  on.  "  You 
know,  you're  all  rather  young  asses,  you  are,  really. 
You  don't  work  in  school,  and  you  don't  play  out  of  it. 
Why,  hang  it,  you  don't  even  play  cricket.  You're 
keen  on  cricket,  aren't  you?  " 

Enthusiastic  exclamations  of  "  Rather!  " 

"  Well,  you  go  fiddling  about  with  rounders  — 
a  girl's  game;  and  you  don't  even  play  that  as 
if  you  meant  it.  Why  on  earth  don't  you  play 
cricket?  " 

"  Please,  sir,"  says  some  one,  "  we  haven't  got  any 
proper  bats  and  wickets." 

"  Man  alive,"  says  Mr.  Wriford,  ''  you've  got  some 
stumps  and  a  ball,  and  I've  seen  an  old  bat  kicking 


ESSIE'S  IDEA  OF  IT  301 

about.  What  more  do  you  want?  Tell  you  what, 
we'll  start  right  away  and  get  up  Cricket  Sixes  —  single 
wicket,  six  a  side.  They're  a  frightful  rag.  We  can 
get  three  —  four  teams  of  sLx  boys  each.  Each  team 
plays  all  the  rest  twice  to  see  which  is  the  champion. 
We'll  keep  all  the  scores  in  an  exercise  book  and  call 
it  the  Tower  House  Cricket  League.  I'll  be  scorer 
and  umpire.  Come  on,  we'll  pick  the  Sixes  right 
away." 

Up  to  his  desk  Mr.  Wriford  goes  amidst  a  buzzing 
of  delight  and  gets  a  clean  exercise  book  and  then 
says:  "  Half  a  moment,  though.  We  ought  to  have  a 
Captain  of  the  School,  you  know,  and  some  Prefects 
—  Monitors.  The  Captain  will  be  my  right-hand  man, 
and  the  Prefects  will  be  his.  We'll  vote  for  him.  That's 
the  best  way.  Each  of  you  chaps  write  down  the  man 
you  think  ought  to  be  the  Captain,  and  then  old  Cupper 
will  collect  the  papers  and  bring  them  to  me,  and  we'll 
count  them  together." 

It  is  done  amid  much  excitement,  and  presently  Mr. 
Wriford  hails  Abbot  as  Captain  of  the  School,  and  up 
comes  Abbot,  loudly  applauded,  a  red-headed  young 
gentleman  of  pleasant  countenance,  to  shake  hands 
with  Mr.  Wriford  and  with  him  to  select  the  Prefects. 
Three  Prefects,  Mr.  Wriford  thinks,  and  says:  "  I  vote 
we  have  old  Cupper  for  one." 

"  And  Toovey,"  says  Abbot. 

"  Right,  Toovey.  And  what  about  Samuel  Major? 
He  looks  a  bit  of  a  beefer.  Well  now,"  continues  Mr. 
Wriford,  thoroughly  interested,  "  you  four  chaps  had 
better  each  be  captain  of  one  of  the  Cricket  SLxes. 
We'll  pick  them  next.  They  must  all  be  as  equal  as 
possible." 


302  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

This  takes  quite  a  long  time,  but  is  satisfactorily 
settled  at  last  and  the  names  written  down  in  the 
exercise-book  and  the  first  two  matches  arranged  for 
that  afternoon:  Abbot's  versus  Toovey's,  and  Samuel 
Major's  v.  Cupper's.  Then  "  Good  Lord,"  says  Mr. 
Wriford,  looking  at  the  clock,  "  it's  neariy  lunch  rime. 
I  vote  we  chuck  it  now  and  go  and  look  out  these  stumps 
and  things  and  find  a  decent  pitch.  Half  a  minute, 
though.  You,  Abbot,  you  know,  and  you  three  Prefect 
chaps  must  remember  what  you  are  and  must  help  me 
to  keep  order  and  to  see  that  no  one  plays  the  fool  in 
school  or  out,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing;  and  you  other 
chaps  must  jolly  well  obey  them.  This  afternoon,  for 
instance,  we'll  have  a  talk  about  work  and  see  just 
where  we  all  stand  and  make  up  our  minds  to  work  like 
blazes.  Well,  while  I'm  fixing  up  Form  Three,  you 
must  see  that  Form  One  doesn't  play  the  goat,  Abbot, 
and  you,  Samuel,  must  look  after  Form  Two.  See  the 
idea  of  the  thing?  Work  is  jolly  interesting,  you  know, 
if  you  go  at  it  properly,  like  I'll  show  you.  Some  sub- 
jects —  like  geography  for  instance  —  we'll  take  all 
together,  and  that'll  be  quite  a  rag.  We're  simply  going 
to  pull  up  our  socks  and  work  like  blazes  and  play  like 
blazes,  too.  See?  Come  on,  let's  get  those  cricket 
things  fixed  up." 

Out  they  go.  Mr.  Wriford  holding  Abbot's  arm,  and 
other  boys  clinging  about  him  —  out  to  the  field  where 
first  from  the  roadside  he  had  seen  them  dejected  and 
listless,  and  where  now  they  run  before  him,  keen, 
excited,  eager,  taken  right  out  of  their  old  sorry 
habits. 

He,  also,  the  first  time  in  many  months,  out  of  himself 
removed. 


ESSIE'S  IDEA  OF  IT  303 


III 

Mr.  Wriford  goes  back  to  the  plumber's  shop  that 
night  occupied  with  plans  for  developing  on  the  morrow 
the  interests  of  the  Cricket  Sixes,  the  Captaincy,  the 
Prefects,  and  the  new  schedule  of  lessons  drawn  up 
during  the  afternoon.  Essie  is  home  before  him,  chat- 
tering more  volubly  and  more  brightly  than  ever  by 
reason  of  her  doings  with  her  friends  and  her  day-long 
desertion  of  Mother  and  Dad.  She  runs  to  the  shop 
door  when  she  hears  Mr.  Wriford  and  greets  him  eagerly. 

"  You  never  got  the  sack,  did  you?  " 

"  No,  he  never  said  a  word.  I  believe  you  were  right 
about  him  being  rather  ashamed." 

Essie  does  a  little  dance  of  joy  and  claps  her  hands. 
"  Oh,  if  I'm  not  lucky,  though!  "  cries  Essie.  "  That 
was  the  one  thing  would  have  spoilt  the  fair  jolly  old 
time  I've  had,  and  there  it's  turned  out  Ai  just  like 
all  the  rest!  " 

Mr.  Wriford  tells  her:  "  It's  very  nice  of  you  to  be 
glad  about  it." 

"  Why,  of  course  I'm  glad,"  cries  Essie.  "  That's 
just  finished  up  my  day  a  treat!  Now  you  won't  half 
enjoy  the  things  I've  brought  home  for  supper  from 
my  young  lady  friends.  I  was  afraid  —  oh,  you  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  have  a  lodger  about  the  house  when 
he's  lost  his  job!  They're  fair  cautions,  lodgers  are, 
when  they've  got  the  sack!  " 

And  later  in  the  evening,  when  he  sees  Essie  sitting 
and  looking  before  her  with  her  eyes  smiling  and  her 
lips   twitching,   she  suddenly  looks  up,   and   catching 


304  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

his  gaze,  reveals  that  it  is  of  him  she  is  thinking.  "  You 
weren't  half  in  the  dumps,  though,  were  you?  "  she 
says.  "  Isn't  it  funny,  though,  when  a  thing's  turned 
out  A  I,  to  look  back  and  see  what  a  state  you  were  m? 
Isn't  it,  though?    Let's  have  a  laugh!  " 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE    VACANT  CORNER 
I 

The  morrow  finds  eager  pupils  awaiting  Mr.  Wriford, 
and  eager  work  and  eager  play,  and  again  in  the  evening 
he  is  returning  to  the  plumber's  shop  occupied  with  the 
plans  for  the  next  day  thrown  up  by  these  new  develop- 
ments. 

So  it  is  also  on  the  following  day,  and  so  the  next, 
and  so  by  day  and  day  and  week  and  week.  Inter- 
estedly and  swiftly  the  time  in  these  preoccupations 
passes.  He  is  quite  surprised  to  find  one  evening  that 
weeks  to  the  number  of  half  the  term  have  gone.  Cap- 
tain of  the  School  Abbot  brings  it  to  his  notice;  and 
on  arrival  at  Tower  House  next  morning  Mr.  Wriford 
brings  it,  together  with  Abbot's  reason  for  mentioning 
it,  to  the  notice  of  Mr.  Pennyquick. 

Mr.  Wriford  knocks  on  the  study  door,  waits  for  the 
"  One  moment!  One  moment!  "  which  is  called  to 
him  and  which  gives  a  chinking  of  glass  in  suggestion 
of  the  fact  that  the  Headmaster  is  putting  away  the 
medicine  bottles,  exhibition  of  which,  as  an  Open-air 
Man,  is  so  distasteful  to  him,  and  then  enters  to  find 
the  Open-air  Man  lying,  as  usual,  on  the  sofa,  amidst 
an  air  that  appears  to  have  escaped  from  beneath  a 
cork  rather  than  have  come  from  the  window. 

305 


3o6  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

Mr.  Wriford  expresses  the  hope  that  he  is  better,  Mr. 
Pennyquick  the  fear  that  he  is  not,  and  there  is  then 
brought  forward  the  suggestion  advanced  by  Abbot. 

"  Thursday  is  half-term,"  says  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Do 
you  think  the  boys  might  have  a  holiday?  They've 
been  working  very  vvell." 

"  A  whole  hoHday?  "  says  Mr.  Pennyquick  doubt- 
fully. 

Mr.  Wriford  knows  perfectly  well  the  reason  for  the 
dubiety  in  the  Headmaster's  voice.  In  these  days  he 
has  taken  the  work  of  the  school  entirely  out  of  Mr. 
Pennyquick's  hands.  Mr.  Pennyquick  no  longer  so 
much  as  reads  roll-call  and  prayers.  Abbot  calls  the 
roll  and  is  mighty  proud  of  the  duty;  Mr.  Wriford 
takes  prayers.  Mr.  Pennyquick  perhaps  twice  in  a 
week  will  tear  himself  from  his  sofa  and  his  medicines 
and  suddenly  burst  upon  the  schoolroom,  patrol  a  few 
turns  with  loud  and  quite  unnecessary  "  WORK  TIP'S ! " 
and  as  suddenly  discharge  himself  again  to  his  study. 

The  less  frequently  he  appears,  the  more  he  shirks 
any  scholastic  duties  with  the  neglect  they  entail  of 
nursing  his  distressing  ailments  in  the  seclusion  of  his 
study.  Thus  it  is  the  idea  of  having  the  boys  on  his 
hands  for  a  complete  day  that  gives  this  doubt  to  his 
tone  when  a  whole  holiday  is  projected,  and  Mr.  Wriford, 
well  aware  of  it,  quickly  reassures  him  on  the  point. 

"  Well,  I  think  they  deserve  a  whole  holiday,"  says 
Mr.  Wriford.  "  Of  course  I'd  come  up  just  the  same 
and  look  after  —  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  a  whole  holiday  by  all  means," 
Mr.  Pennyquick  breaks  in.  "  By  all  means.  Splendid! 
They  deserve  it.  You're  doing  wonderfully  with  them, 
my  dear  fellow.     My  mother  reports  she  has  never 


THE  VACANT  CORNER  307 

known  them  so  happy  or  so  well-behaved.  No  ragging 
in  the  dormitories  at  night.  Cold  baths  every  morning 
at  their  own  request.  Good  God,  do  you  know  I'm  so 
much  a  cold  bath  man  myself  that  I  take  one  twice  a 
day  —  twice  a  day  winter  and  summer  —  when  I'm 
fit.  Clean  and  smart  and  quiet  at  meals.  Perfect 
silence  in  the  schoolroom.  Keen,  manly  play  in  the 
field.  Devoted  to  you.  My  dear  fellow,  you're  won- 
derful. Whole  holiday?  Whole  holiday  by  all  means. 
I  was  going  to  suggest  it  myself." 

"  Thursday,  then,"  says  Mr.  Wriford.  "  They'll  be 
delighted.  I  thought  of  pla}dng  cricket  in  the  morn- 
ing and  then,  if  you  agree,  asking  ISIrs.  Pennyquick  if 
she  could  fix  us  up  some  lunch  and  tea  things  in  hampers, 
and  we'd  go  and  picnic  all  the  rest  of  the  day  at  Pen- 
rington  woods  and  bathe  in  the  river  and  that  kind  of 
thing." 

The  Headmaster  thinks  it  splendid.  "  Splendid,  my 
dear  fellow.  Splendid.  Certainly.  I'll  see  to  it  m3-self. 
Cricket!  Bathing!  Good  God,  you'll  think  it  very 
weak  of  me,  but  I  feel  devilish  near  crying  when  I  think 
of  a  jolly  day  like  that  and  me  tied  up  here  and  unable 
to  share  it.  Cricket!  Good  God,  why,  when  I  was  at 
Oxford  I  made  nine  consecutive  centuries  for  my  college 
one  year.  It's  a  fact.  Nine  absolutely  —  or  was  it 
ten?  I  must  look  it  up.  I  believe  it  was  ten.  Bathing! 
My  dear  fellow,  a  few  years  ago  I  thought  nothing  of  a 
couple  of  miles  swim  before  breakfast  —  side-stroke, 
breast-stroke,  back-stroke;  good  God,  I  was  an  eel  in 
the  water,  a  living  eel.  I'm  an  outdoor  man,  abso- 
lutely. Always  have  been.  That's  the  cruelty  of  it. 
Hullo,  there's  the  bell.  I  shall  take  prayers  this  morn- 
ing, Wriford.     I'm  coming  in  all  day  for  a  real  good 


3o8  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

day's  work  with  the  dear  fellows.  I  don't  know  what  the 
doctor  will  say,  but  I'm  going  to  do  it." 

Mr.  Wriford  is  at  the  door,  and  the  Outdoor  Man 
already  stretching  down  an  arm  to  feel  beneath  the 
sofa.  "  Perhaps  not  prayers,"  says  the  Outdoor  Man. 
"  You'd  better  not  wait  for  me  for  prayers.  I've  just 
my  loathsome  medicine  to  take.  Take  prayers  for  me 
for  once,  like  a  good  fellow,  and  I'll  be  with  you  in  two 
minutes.  Splendid.  You're  wonderful.  Two  minutes. 
Damn." 

There  is  the  sound  of  a  bottle  upset  beneath  the 
sofa,  and  Mr.  Wriford  hurries  off  to  find  Abbot  already 
halfway  through  the  roll,  then  to  take  prayers,  and 
then,  amidst  tremendous  applause,  to  announce  a  whole 
holiday  for  Thursday's  half-term. 

"  Well,  come  on,  let's  make  certain  we  deserve  it," 
says  Mr.  Wriford,  when  the  manifestations  of  joy  have 
been  sufficiently  expressed.  "  Come  along,  Form  Two, 
arithmetic.  Let's  see  if  we  can't  understand  these 
frightful  decimals.  Clean  the  blackboard,  Toovey. 
Abbot,  you  take  Form  Three  behind  the  curtain  and 
give  them  their  dictation.  Here's  the  book.  Find  an 
interesting  bit  and  read  it  out  loud  first.  Form  One, 
you're  algebra.  You'd  better  take  the  next  six  ex- 
amples. Cupper,  you're  in  charge.  Now  then.  Two, 
crowd  around.     Where's  the  chalk?  " 

II 

This  was  the  spirit  of  the  lessons  nowadays.  Every- 
body worked.  Nobody  shirked.  Interest,  even  excite- 
ment, was  found  imder  Mr.  Wriford 's  guidance  to  lie 
in  the  hated  (esson-books,  and  it  was  excitedly  wrestled 


THE  VACANT  CORNER  309 

out  of  them.  Some  of  the  subjects,  as  Mr.  Wriford 
taught  them,  were  made  exciting  in  themselves;  the 
rest  were  somehow  inspired  with  the  feehng  that  the 
next  chapter  —  the  next  chapter  really  is  exciting  once 
we  can  get  to  it.  All  the  Tower  House  schoolbooks  were 
horribly  thumbed  and  inked  and  dog-eared  in  their 
first  few  pages  —  long  indifferently  laboured  over, 
never  understood,  cordially  loathed.  Beyond  lay  virgin 
pages,  clean,  untouched,  many  sticking  together  as 
when  fresh  from  the  binder's  press.  "  Look  here," 
Mr.  Wriford  used  to  say,  "  these  French  grammars, 
they're  all  the  same  —  all  in  a  filthy  state  up  to  page 
thirty  and  rippingly  clean  beyond,  just  like  a  new  story- 
book. Look  here,  let's  pretend  all  that  new  part  is  a 
country  we're  going  to  emigrate  into  and  explore,  and 
that  first  of  all  we've  got  to  toil  over  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains of  all  this  first  muck.  You  half  know  it,  you  know. 
If  we  get  through  a  good  few  pages  every  time  we'll 
get  there  like  lightning.    Come  on!  " 

They  always  "  came  on  "  responsive  to  this  kind  of 
call.  The  work  in  all  the  subjects  belonged  to  the  dis- 
tant period  of  Mr.  Wriford 's  own  school-days.  He  had 
to  get  it  up  as  it  came.  He  brought  to  the  boys  the 
quite  novel  effect  of  a  master  learning  with  them  as 
they  learnt,  and  that  produced  the  stimulus  of  following 
him  in  place  of  the  grind  of  being  driven.  "  My  word, 
this  is  a  teaser!"  Mr.  Wriford  would  say,  frankly 
stumped  by  an  arithmetical  problem;  and  the  delighted 
laugh  that  always  greeted  this  was  the  impetus  to  an 
eager  and  intelligent  following  him  when  he  would  get 
it  aright  and  demonstrate  its  processes.  Wits  were 
sharpened,  perceptions  stirred.  Boyish  high  spirits, 
mental  alertness,   and  vigorous  young  qualities  were 


3IO  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

rescued  from  the  dejection  and  apathy  and  slovenliness 
and  ugliness  that  had  threatened  to  submerge  them: 
and  Mr.  Wriford  finds  himself  infected  and  carried 
along  by  the  moral  quickening  he  has  himself  aroused. 

Ill 

He  knows  it.  He  feels  it.  He  both  knows  and  feels 
it  because,  whereas  formerly  he  groped  ever  in  darkness 
of  spirit  and  beneath  intolerable  oppression  of  mind, 
now,  when  engaged  in  these  occupations  or  when  think- 
ing upon  them,  he  is  lifted  out  of  himself,  and  in  the 
zest  of  their  activities  forgets  the  burden  of  his  own 
tribulations.  Thus  what  had  been  all  darkness,  all 
shrinking,  all  fears,  becomes  divided,  as  street  lamps 
break  the  night,  into  periods  of  light  while  he  is  within 
the  arc  of  these  pursuits  and  into  passages  of  the  old 
gloom  only  between  one  day's  leaving  of  the  school 
and  the  next  morning's  return  to  it.  Slowly  from  this 
he  advances  to  stronger  influence  of  the  Ught,  less  fre- 
quent onset  of  the  shadows.  First  by  these  lamps  the 
measureless  blackness  of  his  way  is  broken.  Gradually 
he  is  handed  more  quickly  and  more  surely  from  lamp 
to  lamp.  Not  often  now,  with  their  immense  and 
crushing  weight,  their  suffocating  sense  of  numbing 
fear,  those  old  and  intolerable  clouds  of  misery  descend 
upon  him;  not  often  now  those  black  abysses  that 
yawned  on  every  side  about  his  feet;  not  often  those 
entombing  walls  that  towered  every  way  about  his 
soul.  Sometimes  they  come.  He,  in  the  days  of  that 
nightmare  hunted  life  in  London,  sometimes  had  known 
snatched  intervals  of  relief  —  in  companionship,  in 
reading  —  in  the  midst  of  which  there  would  strike 


THE  VACANT  CORNER  311 

down  upon  him  the  thought  that  this  was  but  transi- 
tory, that  presently  it  would  end,  that  presently  he 
would  be  returned  to  the  strain,  to  the  fears,  to  the 
darkness,  to  the  panic  bursting  to  get  out  of  it.  So  now, 
sometimes,  when  his  mind  moved  ever  so  Httle  from  its 
occupation  with  these  new  interests,  he  would  be  clutched 
as  though  immediately  outside  them  clutching  hands 
waited  to  drag  him  out  and  drag  him  down  —  clutched 
and  engulfed  and  bound  again  in  bonds  of  terror,  as 
one  whose  pleasant  slumber  suddenly  gives  place  to 
dreadful  sense  of  falling.  In  the  midst  of  his  thoughts 
upon  some  aspect  of  work  or  play  with  his  pupils,  "  This 
cannot  go  on  always,"  he  would  think;  "  This  will 
somehow  come  to  an  end  sooner  or  later;  "  and  imme- 
diately the  waiting  hands  would  up  and  snatch  him 
down;  immediately  the  fears  oppress  him;  immedi- 
ately the  walls,  the  blackness  come;  and  he  would  cry: 
"  What  then?  Where  then?  "  and  grope  again;  and 
bruise  once  more  himself  on  his  despair;  and  plan  to  go 
away  and  abandon  it  all,  so  that  at  least  he  might  of 
his  own  wall  leave  these  interests,  not  wait  till  suddenly 
they  to  their  own  end  should  come  and  he  be  driven 
from  them. 

So  sometimes  these  old  tumults  came  upon  him;  yet 
came  less  frequently,  and  the  less  frequently  they  came 
were  with  less  suffering  escaped.  Now,  in  their  onsets, 
was  for  the  first  time  a  way  of  refuge  from  them.  Where 
formerly  he  had  been  utterly  abandoned  to  them,  sink- 
ing more  and  more  deeply  within  them  at  every  cry  of 
his  despair,  now  was  a  knowledge  that  they  could  be 
lost;  and  quicker  and  more  strongly  a  conscious  grasp 
at  what  should  lose  them  and  draw  him  out  from  their 
oppression.     At   first  with   dreadful   effort   and   often 


312  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

with  defeat,  gradually  with  less  affliction  and  with  more 
certain  hold,  he  would  attempt  to  turn  his  mind  from 
these  broodings  and  fasten  it  upon  his  enterprises  in 
the  school.  There  was  to  be  thought  out  a  way  of 
helping  Form  Two  to  get  the  hang  of  parsing  in  their 
Enghsh  grammar  to-morrow;  there  was  the  idea  of 
starting  the  young  beggars  in  a  daily  class  of  drill  and 
physical  exercises;  there  was  the  plan  of  rummaging 
among  Pennyquick's  books  to  pick  out  a  little  Ubrary 
of  Hght  reading  for  the  boys  and  to  read  to  them  him- 
self for  half  an  hour  each  day;  there  was  the  thought 
of  how  jolly  nicely  they  had  responded  to  his  proposal 
to  go  through  their  play-boxes  and  pick  out  all  the 
cheap  trash  he  found  they  had  been  reading,  and  of  the 
jokes  they  had  had  over  the  bonfire  made  from  the 
collection;  there  was  the  thinking  of  other  ways  in 
which  this  complete  confidence  they  gave  him  could  be 
used  for  their  own  benefit ;  there  was  —  there  were  a 
hundred  of  such  preoccupations  for  his  mind,  any  one 
of  which,  could  he  but  fix  tenaciously  enough  upon  it, 
would  draw  him  from  the  quicksands  of  his  depression 
and  set  his  feet  where  strongly  they  bore  him. 

IV 

Thus  came  he  gradually  into  a  state  in  which  the  old 
depths  of  oppression  troubled  him  no  more;  in  which 
the  apprehensive,  hunted  look  went  from  his  eyes;  in 
which  sometimes  a  smile  was  to  be  seen  upon  his  face; 
and  in  which  —  to  the  observer  —  his  outstanding 
attribute  was  just  that  he  was  very  quiet,  very  re- 
served: gently  responsive  to  advances  from  others  but 
never  of  himself  offering  conversation.     So  may  one 


THE  VACANT  CORNER  313 

newly  convalescent  after  great  illness  be  observed;  and 
to  this  Mr.  Wriford's  case  in  these  days  may  best  be 
likened.  As  the  convalescent,  after  long  pains,  deliriums, 
fevers,  nights  void  of  sleep,  is  carried  to  sit  in  the  sun- 
shine from  the  bed  where  these  have  been  endured,  so 
in  this  haven  rested  Mr.  Wriford  from  his  mind's  dis- 
tresses. There  sits  the  patient,  wan  and  weak,  desirous 
only  to  enjoy  the  pleasant  air,  wanting  no  more  than 
just  to  feed  upon  the  smiling  prospect  his  eyes  that  all 
the  devils  of  his  fevered  brain  have  burned;  silently 
acquiescent  to  ministrations  of  those  who  tend  him. 
Here  lived  Mr.  Wriford,  quiet  and  reserved,  no  longer 
preyed  upon  by  those  fierce  storms  of  hopeless  misery 
such  as,  on  the  first  night  at  the  Bickers'  table,  had 
sent  him  torn  and  broken  from  the  room;  wearing  a 
gentle  aspect  now  in  place  of  those  contracted  eyes, 
that  knotted  brow,  born  of  the  fever  in  his  brain ;  hands 
no  longer  trembling;  voice  eased  of  its  strained  and 
rasping  note  that  came  of  fear  it  should  break  out  of  his 
control  and  go  in  tears  of  his  distress.  There  rests  the 
convalescent's  body,  thin  and  enfeebled  from  its  rack- 
ings  on  the  bed.  Here  stayed  Mr.  Wriford,  wanting 
only  here  to  stay  where  refuge  was  from  all  the  devils 
that  had  devoured  him.  There  rests  the  patient,  slowly 
replanning  life  that  death  had  challenged,  sickness 
shattered.  Here  lived  he,  quietly  revolving  what  had 
brought  him  here  and  what  should  follow  now. 

Was  there  something  in  life  that  he  had  missed? 
Calmly  now  he  could  ask  and  search  the  question.  Till 
now,  since  its  first  coming,  it  had  been  as  a  gnawing 
tumour,  as  an  empoisoned  wound  within  him  —  an 
inward  fire,  a  pulsing  abscess  to  relieve  whose  tortures 
he,  as  a  wild  beast  thus  maddened  that  turns  its  jaws 


314  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

upon  its  vitals,  had  bruised  himself  to  madness  in 
frantic  goadings  of  his  mind.  Now  he  could  review  it 
calmly,  almost  dispassionately.  The  thing  was  out  of 
him,  no  longer  burning  in  his  brain.  Till  now,  he  had 
thought  upon  it  in  frenzy  of  despair,  now  he  could 
stand  as  it  were  away  from  it  —  turn  it  this  way  and 
that  in  examination  with  his  hands,  smile  and  shake 
his  head  in  puzzlement,  and  put  it  aside  to  go  to  his 
duties  with  his  boys,  return  and  take  it  up  and  puzzle 
it  again.  Was  there  something  in  life  that  he  had 
missed?  Yes,  there  was  something.  He  could  unriddle 
it  as  far  as  that.  He  was  at  peace  now,  but  there  was 
nothing  in  that  peace.  Some  attribute  was  missing. 
This  was  peace:  but  it  was  emptiness.  This  was  quiet- 
ness: but  a  thousand  leagues  remote  from  happiness. 
Happiness  was  an  active  thing,  a  stirring  thing,  a  Uving 
thing,  a  warm  thing,  a  pulsing  thing.  Barren  here, 
cold  here.  Let  the  mind  run,  let  the  mind  run  about  a 
thousand  pleasures  such  as  money  could  buy.  They 
might  be  his  for  the  asking.  He  had  but  to  return  to 
London,  and  they  were  his.  Well,  let  the  mind  run. 
Back  it  would  come  disconsolate,  empty-handed,  with 
no  treasures  in  its  pack.  Nothing  attracted  him.  Ah, 
but  somewhere,  somewhere,  somewhere,  that  thing 
was  —  the  live  thing,  the  stirring  thing,  the  active 
thing,  the  warm  thing.  Something  that  he  had  missed 
in  hfe:  that  was  certain.  Happiness  its  name:  that 
was  assured.  Where?  In  what?  How  to  be  found? 
Only  negative  answers  to  these.  Well,  shake  the  head 
over  it  and  put  it  away;  smile  and  confess  its  bafflement. 
Here  are  things  to  be  done.  Do  them  and  return  to 
puzzle  again  in  a  little  while. 

So  and  in  this  wise  quietly  through  the  days  —  stand- 


THE  VACANT  CORNER  315 

ing  aside  in  this  retreat  and  looking  at  life  as  one  that, 
furnishing  a  room,  stands  to  stare  at  a  bare  corner,  and 
only  knows  something  is  wanted  there,  and  only  knows 
that  nothing  of  all  he  has  will  suit,  and  only  turns  away 
but  to  return  again  and  stare. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ESSIE 


That  simile  of  Mr.  Wriford's  condition  in  these  days 
to  one  who,  rearranging  the  furniture  of  his  room, 
stares  in  constant  bafflement  at  a  bare  corner  and  can 
by  no  means  determine  with  what  to  fill  it,  may  be 
advanced  a  further  step.  The  decorator's  eye,  nar- 
rowly judging  all  the  objects  that  are  at  his  disposal, 
will  in  time,  in  a  "  better  than  nothing  "  spirit,  turn 
more  frequently  to  one,  and  presently  he  will  try  it: 
there  came  a  time  when  it  occurred  to  Mr.  Wriford, 
dispassionately  revolving  the  vacancy  in  his  life,  that 
there  was  one  might  fill  it  —  Essie. 

One  day,  and  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  idea  — 
not  then  conceived  —  Mr.  Wriford  asked  Essie  if  he 
might  take  her  for  a  walk.  A  Saturday  evening  was  the 
day :  a  July  evening,  cool  and  still  —  very  grateful  and 
inviting  after  oppressive  heat  through  morning  and 
afternoon;  a  breeze  come  up  with  nightfall.  There 
was  no  preparation  class  at  Tower  House  on  Saturdays. 
Mr.  Wriford  left  his  boys  reading  the  books  he  had 
rummaged  for  them  out  of  Mr.  Pennyquick's  library 
and  came  home  to  early  supper.  By  eight  o'clock  Essie 
had  washed  up,  and  Mr.  Wriford  came  to  her  where 
she  was  standing  by  the  shop  door  enjoying  the  pleasant 
air. 

316 


ESSIE  317 

"  Isn't  it  jolly,  though?  "  said  Essie,  moving  to  give 
him  place  beside  her  in  the  entrance. 

"  Yes,  it's  beautifully  cool  now,"  Mr.  Wriford  agreed. 

Several  young  couples  —  man  and  maid  —  were 
passing  in  one  direction  up  the  street.  Mr.  Wriford 
watched  Essie's  face  as  she  watched  them.  He  could 
see  her  eyes  shining  and  those  little  twitches  of  her  lips 
as  she  observed  each  separate  swain  and  maid.  With 
the  slow  passing  of  one  pair,  their  hands  clasped,  walking 
very  close  together,  she  gave  a  little  squirm  and  a  little 
sound  of  merriment  and  turned  to  him. 

"  Aren't  they  funny,  though,"  said  Essie,  "  court- 
ing! " 

Mr.  Wriford  asked  her:  "  Where  are  they  all  going?  " 

"  Why,  they're  going  to  the  Gardens,  of  course. 
There  isn't  half  a  jolly  band  plays  there  Saturday 
evenings." 

She  was  the  prettiest  little  thing,  as  Mr.  Wriford 
looked  at  her,  standing  there  beside  him.  He  liked  her 
merry  ways,  so  different  from  his  own  habitual  quietude. 
It  occurred  to  him  that,  apart  from  that  walk  to  the 
station  together  some  weeks  before,  he  hardly  ever  had 
spoken  to  her  out  of  her  parents'  company.  Why  not? 
—  so  pretty  and  jolly  as  she  was. 

A  sudden  impulse  came  to  him.  He  hesitated  to 
speak  it.  She  might  resent  the  suggestion.  He  looked 
at  her  again  —  those  funny  little  twitchings  of  her  lips ! 
"  May  I  take  you  for  a  stroll,  Essie?  "  he  said. 

There  was  not  the  least  reason  to  have  hesitated. 
Essie's  face  showed  her  pleasure.  She  quite  jumped 
from  her  leaning  pose  against  the  doorway.  "  Oh, 
that's  fine!  "  cried  Essie.  "  I'll  just  pop  on  my  chapeau. 
I  won't  be  half  a  tick." 


3i8  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

She  was  gone  with  the  words,  and  he  heard  her 
running  briskly  up  the  stairs  to  her  room  and  then 
very  briskly  down  again  and  then  in  the  parlour,  cry- 
ing: "  Dad,  me  an'  the  lodger  are  going  for  a  stroll  in 
the  Gardens.  Sure  you've  got  everything  you  want, 
Mother?  Look,  there's  the  new  silk  when  you've 
finished  that  ball.  Isn't  it  pretty,  though!  "  and  then 
the  sound  of  a  kiss  for  Mother  and  a  kiss  for  Dad; 
and  then  coming  to  him,  gaily  swinging  her  gloves  in  a 
brown  little  hand,  her  eyes  quite  extraordinarily  spark- 
ling. 

"There  you  are!"  cried  Essie,  and  they  started. 
"  That  wasn't  long,  was  it?  Why,  some  girls,  you 
know,  keep  their  young  fellows  waiting  a  treat." 

''  Do  they?  "  said  Mr.  Wriford,  a  trifle  coldly. 

"  Don't  they  just!  "  cried  Essie,  noticing  nothing 
that  his  tone  might  have  been  intended  to  convey,  and 
beginning,  as  they  went  on  in  silence,  to  walk  every 
now  and  then  with  a  gay  little  skip  as  though  by  that 
means  to  exercise  her  delighted  spirits. 

Mr.  Wriford,  now  that  he  was  embarked  upon  his 
sudden  impulse,  found  himself  somehow  dissatisfied 
with  it.  He  would  have  been  embarrassed,  perhaps  a 
little  disappointed,  he  told  himself,  had  she  refused 
his  invitation.  He  found  himself  embarrassed,  perhaps 
a  little  piqued,  that  she  had  accepted  it  so  readily,  taken 
it  so  much  as  a  matter  of  course.  And  then  there  was 
that  "  young  fellow  "  expression  with  its  obvious  im- 
plication. His  idea  had  been  that  she  would  have 
shown  herself  conscious  of  being  —  well,  flattered,  by 
his  invitation.  Not,  he  assured  himself,  that  there  was 
anything  flattering  in  it;  but  still  — .  Perhaps,  though, 
she  was  more  conscious  of  it  than  she  had  seemed  to 


ESSIE  319 

show;  and  coming  to  that  thought  he  asked  her  sud- 
denly, giving  her  the  opportunity  to  say  so:  "I  hope 
you  didn't  mind  my  proposing  to  take  you  for  a 
walk?  " 

Essie  skipped.  "  Good  gracious!  "  cried  Essie. 
"  Whyever?  " 

"  I  thought  you  might  think  it  rather  —  sudden." 

Essie  laughed  and  skipped  again.  "  Sudden!  Why, 
you've  bin  long  enough,  goodness  knows!  Why,  I've 
bin  expecting  you  to  ask  me  for  weeks,  you  know!  " 

"  Have  you?  "  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

"Think  I  have!"  cried  Essie.  "Why,  the  lodger 
always  does!  " 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Wriford. 

This  time  Essie  seemed  to  detect  something  amiss  in 
his  tone.  In  a  few  paces  she  was  bending  forward  as  she 
walked  and  trying  to  read  his  face.  "  I  say,"  said 
Essie,  "  you  aren't  in  a  crosspatch,  are  you?  " 

"  Of  course  I'm  not.    WTiy  should  I  be?  " 

"  Sure  I  don't  know.  You  wanted  me  to  come,  didn't 
you?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did.  I  shouldn't  have  asked  you  other- 
wise." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Essie.  "  Young  fellows 
are  that  funny  sometimes!  " 

Silence  between  them  after  that,  but  as  they  came 
to  the  Gardens  Essie  showed  that  the  funny  ways  of 
young  fellows  had  been  occup}dng  her  in  the  interval. 
"  Of  course,  you're  always  very  quiet,  aren't  you?  "  she 
said. 

"  I  don't  talk  much,"  Mr.  Wriford  agreed. 

"  Of  course  you  don't!  "  cried  Essie  and  seemed  so 
reassured  by  the  recollection  that  Mr.  Wriford  suddenly 


320  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

felt  he  had  been  behaving  a  little  unkindly  —  stupidly; 
and  with  some  idea  of  making  amends  smiled  at  her. 

Essie  flashed  back  with  eyes  and  lips.  "  Of  course 
you  don't!  "  sne  cried  again.  "  Well,  I  vote  we  enjoy 
ourselves  now  if  ever.  Just  look  at  all  the  lights!  See 
the  funny  little  blue  ones?  Aren't  they  funny  though, 
all  twinkling!    Let's  have  a  laugh!  " 

With  a  laugh,  therefore,  into  the  Gardens;  and  with 
a  laugh  Mr.  Wriford's  unreasoning  distemper  put  off. 
Jolly  Uttle  Essie! 

No  need,  moreover,  to  do  more  than  listen  to  her, 
and  to  think  how  jolly  she  was,  and  how  pretty  she 
looked,  as  she  turned  chattering  to  him  while  she  led  the 
way  among  the  groups  clustered  about  the  bandstand. 
"  We'll  go  right  through,"  said  Essie.  "  There's  seats 
up  there  where  you  can  sit  an'  hear  the  band  an'  see 
the  lights  a  treat.  Jus'  watch  a  minute  to  see  that  great 
big  fat  man  with  the  trombone  where  he  keeps  coming 
in  pom!  pom!  There!  See  him?  Oh,  isn't  he  a 
caution!  " 

Close  to  Mr.  Wriford  she  stands,  and  Mr.  Wriford 
watches  her  watch  the  fat  gentleman  with  the  trombone, 
her  lips  twitching  while  she  waits  for  his  turn  and  then 
her  little  squirm  of  glee  when  he  raises  his  instrument 
to  his  mouth  and  solemnly  administers  his  deliberate 
pom!  pom!  to  the  melody.  "  Oh,  dear!  "  cries  Essie, 
"  isn't  this  just  too  jolly  for  anything!  Come  along. 
Up  this  path.  I  know  a  not  half  quiet  Httle  seat  up 
here.  I  say,  though!  When  you've  been  looking  at 
the  lights!    If  this  isn't  dark!    Oo-oo!  " 

This  "  Oo-oo!  "  is  expressive  of  the  fact  that  really 
it  is  rather  ticklish  work  suddenly  being  launched  on  a 
pitch  dark  path,  falling  away  steeply  at  the  sides,  after 


i 


ESSIE  321 

the  glare  of  the  bandstand;  and  with  the  "  Oo-oo!  " 
comes  Essie's  arm  pressing  very  close  against  Mr. 
Wriford's  and  her  hand  against  his  hand. 

"  Let's  hold  hands,"  says  Essie,  and  her  fingers  come 
wriggling  into  his  —  cool  and  firm,  her  fingers,  and 
there  is  the  faint  chink  of  the  bracelets  that  she  wears. 
"  I  like  holding  hands,  don't  you?  " 

Cool  and  firm  her  fingers.  His  hand  is  unresponsive, 
but  rather  jolly  to  feel  them  come  wriggling  into  it  and 
then  twine  about  it.  She  settles  them  to  her  liking,  and 
this  is  enlocked  about  his  own,  her  palm  to  his.  Yes, 
rather  jolly  to  feel  them  thus:  they  give  him  a  curious 
thrill,   a  desire. 

II 

Essie's  seat  was  found  to  be  quite  the  not  half  quiet 
little  place  that  she  had  promised.  It  stood  at  the 
termination  of  the  winding  path,  backed  by  a,  high 
rockery  of  ferns  and  looking  down  upon  the  lights  and 
the  bandstand  whence  came  the  music  very  pleasantly 
through  the  distance. 

Here  were  influences  that  touched  anew  the  curious 
thrill  her  fingers  had  given  Mr.  Wriford.  The  warm, 
still  night,  the  feeling  of  remoteness  here,  the  music 
floating  up,  Essie  very  close  beside  him,  her  face  clear 
to  his  eyes  in  this  soft  glow  of  summer  darkness.  A 
very  long  time  since  to  Mr.  Wriford  there  had  been  such 
playfulness  of  spirit  as  stirred  within  him  now.  Soft 
she  was  where  she  touched  him,  sensibly  warm  against 
his  arm,  enticingly  fragrant. 

"  Told  you  this  would  be  jolly,  didn't  I?  "  said 
Essie. 


322  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  agreed  Mr.  Wriford,  and  put  his  arm 
along  the  seat  behind  her  shoulders. 

Essie  didn't  seem  to  mind. 

And  then  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  further  from 
him. 

Nor  to  mind  that. 

"  All  right,  I  call  it,"  said  Essie.  "  You  know,  if 
you  came  out  more  to  the  band  and  places  like  this, 
you  soon  wouldn't  be  so  quiet." 

"  I  shouldn't  care  much  about  it  by  myself,"  said  Mr. 
Wriford. 

"  Oh,  I'd  come  with  you,"  Essie  assured  him. 
"  Nothing's  much  fun  not  when  you  do  it  by  yourself. 
I  say,  whatever  are  you  doing  with  that  arm  of  yours 
on  my  shoulder?  " 

"  I'm  not  doing  anything  with  it,"  said  Mr.  Wriford, 
and  gave  a  little  laugh,  and  said:  "  I'm  going  to, 
though." 

"  What?  " 

"  This." 

"  Oo-oo!  "  cried  Essie. 

Mr.  Wriford's  "  This "  was  bending  his  face  to 
hers,  and  his  arm  slipped  a  little  lower  down  her  shoul- 
ders, and  drawing  her  towards  him.  "  Oo-oo-oo!  "  cried 
Essie  and  pressed  away  and  turned  away  her  head. 
"  Oo-oo!  "  and  then  he  kissed  her  cheek,  then  brought 
his  other  arm  around  and  turned  her  face  to  his.  "  Oo- 
oo-oo!  I  say,  you  know!  "  —  and  there,  close  beneath 
his  own,  were  those  soft,  expressive  lips  of  hers,  and 
twice  he  kissed  them:  and  of  a  sudden  she  was  relaxed 
in  his  arms,  no  longer  struggling,  and  there  were  depths 
in  those  eyes  of  hers,  and  this  time  a  long  kiss. 

"  There!  "  said  Mr.  Wriford  and  released  her;    and 


ESSIE  323 

immediately  two  curious  emotions  followed  in  his  mind. 
First,  that,  now  the  thing  was  over,  it  was  over  —  com- 
pleted, done,  not  attracting  any  more. 

"  I  say,  you  know!  "  said  Essie,  settling  her  hat  and 
pouting  at  him:  and  all  rosy  she  was,  all  radiant,  en- 
ticingly pouting,  pretending  aggrievement  —  just  the 
very  blushes,  pouts,  and  smiles  to  have  it  done  again. 
But  for  Mr.  Wriford  not  enticing  at  all:  over,  done; 
conceiving  in  him  almost  a  distaste  of  it;  and,  moved 
a  trifle  away  from  her,  he  said  hardly:  "  I  suppose  the 
lodger  always  does  that,  too?  " 

"  Well,  most  of  'em,"  said  Essie  cheerfully;  and  at 
that  his  new  emotion  quickened,  and  he  made  a  petu- 
lant, angry  movement  with  his  shoulders. 

She  detected  his  meaning  just  as  she  had  detected 
the  coldness  in  his  voice  as  they  came  down  towards  the 
Gardens  together  a  short  while  before.  She  detected 
his  meaning,  and  answered  him  sharply,  and  the  words 
of  her  defence  and  the  manner  of  it  broke  out  in 
him  the  second  of  the  two  emotions  that  followed  his 
caprice. 

"  Well,  what's  the  odds  to  it  if  they  have?  "  said 
Essie,  sitting  up  very  straight  and  speaking  very  tensely. 
"  Where's  the  harm?  It's  only  fun.  Not  as  if  I  had  a 
proper  young  fellow  of  my  own.  Take  jolly  good  care 
if  I  had!  Where's  the  harm?  I  like  being  kissed.  I  like 
to  think  some  one's  fond  of  me." 

Now,  for  all  the  sharpness  of  her  tone,  she  looked 
appealing:  a  trifle  of  a  flutter  in  those  expressive  Ups 
of  hers:  a  hint  of  a  catch  in  her  voice.  Swiftly  to  Mr. 
Wriford  came  his  second  emotion.  Poor  little  Essie 
that  liked  to  think  some  one  was  fond  of  her!  Jolly 
Httle  Essie  with  her  "  Let's  have  a  laugh!  "    Here  was 


324  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

the  kindest,  cheeriest  little  creature  in  the  world!  Let 
him  enjoy  it! 

"  That's  all  right,  Essie,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  and  moved 
to  her  again  and  took  her  brown  little  hand. 

"  Glad  you  think  so,  I'm  sure!  "  said  Essie.  "  That's 
my  hand,  if  you've  no  objection,"  and  she  withdrew  it. 

Mr.  Wriford  took  it  again  and  held  it  while  it  wriggled. 
"  Come,  who's  the  crosspatch  now?  " 

"Well,  that's  nice!"  cried  Essie.  "I'm  sure  I'm 
not." 

"  Put  your  fingers  like  you  had  them  when  we  walked 
up.  That's  the  way  of  it.  This  little  one  there  and  that 
little  one  there." 

"  Oh,  go  on!  "  said  Essie,  but  settled  her  fingers  as 
she  was  told. 

"  Rather  nice  just  now,  don't  you  think?  "  said  Mr. 
Wriford. 

"  Not  bad,"  said  Essie. 

"  Perhaps  we'll  do  it  again?  " 

"  Perhaps  the  moon'll  drop  plump  out  of  the  sky." 

"  W^ell,  we'll  watch  it,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  "  and  if  it 
doesn't  we  will.    Let's  be  friends,  Essie." 

"  Oh,  we're  friends,  aU  right." 

"  Well,  I'll  pretend  I'm  your  —  young  fellow.  How 
about  that?  " 

Essie  gave  a  little  laugh.  "  Likely!  "  she  said.  "  You 
know,  I  beheve  you're  a  caution  after  all,  for  all  you're 
so  quiet.  My  young  fellow!  Why,  I  don't  even  know 
your  name  —  your  Christian  name,  I  mean." 

"  What  do  you  think?  " 

"  However  do  I  know?  Shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised 
if  it  was  Solomon." 

"  Well,  it  isn't.    What  would  you  like  it  to  be?  " 


ESSIE  325 

Essie  looked  across  the  bandstand  lights  beneath 
them  for  a  moment,  then  made  a  Httle  snuggling  move- 
ment with  the  hand  in  Mr.  Wriford's,  and  then  looked 
at  him  and  said  softly:  "  Well,  I've  never  had  an 
Arthur." 

"  Call  me  Arthur,  then  —  so  long  as  you  don't  make 
it  Art  or  Artie." 

"  What,  don't  you  Hke  Art,  then?  "  said  Essie,  and 
then  suddenly,  her  eyes  asparkle  again,  her  lips  twitch- 
ing, "  Aren't  names  funny,  though?  Let's  have  a 
laugh! " 

And  Mr.  Wriford  laughed  and  said  the  name  Edith 
always  made  him  think  of  seed  cake ;  and  Essie  laughed 
immensely  and  said  Alice  always  reminded  her  of  a 
piece  of  silk;  and  Mr.  Wriford  said  Ethel  was  a  bit  of 
brown  velvet;  and  Essie  said  Robert  was  a  bouncing 
foot-ball;  and  in  this  laughter  and  this  childish  folly 
Mr.  Wriford  found  himself  immoderately  tickled  and 
amused,  and  Essie  qxiite  forgot  the  disturbance  that  had 
followed  the  kissing;  and  home  when  the  band  stopped 
they  went  in  quick  exchange  of  Hghtsome  subjects. 

Mr.  Wriford,  for  the  first  time  that  he  might  have 
remembered,  went  to  bed  and  fell  asleep  without  lying 
long  awake  to  think  and  think. 

The  significant  thing  was  that  he  did  not  try  to 
remember  it,  nor  reflect  upon  it.  He  was  smiHng  at  an 
absurdity  of  jolly  little  Essie's  as  he  put  out  his  Ught: 
he  was  soon  asleep. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OUR  ESSTE 


Walks  with  Essie  are  frequent  now;  and  in  the  house 
talk  with  Essie  at  all  odd  moments  that  bring  them  to- 
gether. Jolly  Httle  Essie!  Mr.  Wriford  finds  himself 
often  thinking  of  her  as  that,  and  for  that  quahty  al- 
ways seeking  her  when  moodiness  oppresses  him.  Days 
pass  and  there  is  a  step  in  advance  of  this:  good  little 
Essie!  Careless,  he  realises  himself,  of  what  mood  he 
takes  to  her.  He  can  be  silent  with  her,  depressed,  op- 
pressed, thinking,  puzzling:  Essie  never  minds.  He 
can  be  irritable  with  her  and  speak  sharply  to  her: 
Essie  never  minds.  Essie  is  content  just  to  rattle  along 
and  not  be  answered,  or,  if  that  seems  to  vex  him 
further,  then  just  to  occupy  herself  with  those  bright, 
roving  eyes  of  hers,  and  with  those  merry  thoughts  which 
they  pick  up  and  reflect  again  in  the  movements  of 
those  expressive  lips.  Days  pass  and  his  thoughts  of 
her  take  yet  a  further  step :  pretty  little  Essie !  —  Essie 
who  likes  to  be  kissed,  who  sees  "  no  odds  to  it,"  who 
likes  to  think  somebody  is  fond  of  her!  She  is  jolly 
little  Essie  —  always  cheers  him:  "Oh,  Arthur!" 
when  for  an  hour  he  has  not  spoken  a  word,  or  speaking, 
has  snubbed  her,  "  Oh,  Arthur!  Just  look  at  those 
dogs  chasing!    Oh,  did  you  ever!    Aren't  they  funny, 

326 


OUR  ESSIE  327 

though!  Let's  have  a  laugh!  "  She  is  good  little  Essie 
—  never  minds:  "  Well,  whatever's  the  odds  to  that?  " 
when  sometimes  he  apologises  for  having  been  ungra- 
cious. "  I  daresay  I'm  not  half  a  nuisance,  chattering, 
when  you  want  to  be  quiet.  Why,  you're  always  quiet 
though,  aren't  you?  I  don't  mind."  She  is  pretty  Httle 
Essie:  "  Oo-oo!  "  cries  Essie.  "  I  say,  though!  "  and 
then,  as  on  that  first  occasion,  relaxes  and  gives  him 
those  pretty,  expressive  lips  of  hers,  and  is  warm  and 
soft  and  clinging  in  his  arms;  and  then  one  day,  when 
in  his  kiss  she  detects  some  ardour,  born,  while  he  kisses 
her,  of  a  sudden  gathering  realisation  of  his  frequent,  his 
advancing  thoughts  of  her,  says  to  him  softly,  snuggling 
to  him:   "  What,  are  you  fond  of  me,  Arthur?  " 

More  swiftly  than  the  space  of  the  inspiration  of  a 
single  breath  an  idea  springs,  fixes,  spreads  within  him. 
It  is  determination  of  all  his  thought  of  her  in  their 
advancing  stages:  it  is  swiftest  look  from  that  vacant 
corner  in  the  room  of  his  life  to  Essie,  always  so  jolly, 
always  so  good,  ah,  so  pretty,  yielding  in  his  arms. 
Swift  as  a  single  breath  it  is.  Why  should  not  Essie 
fill  that  vacant  place? 

"  What,  are  you  fond  of  me,  Arthur?  " 

Deep  in  his  sudden  thought  he  does  not  answer  her. 
What  sees  she  responsive  to  her  question  in  his  eyes? 
She  sees  that  which  makes  her  leave  his  grasp. 

In  her  eyes  he  sees  sudden  moisture  shining. 

Deep  in  the  sudden  thought  that  has  him  —  bemused 
as  one  that,  in  earnest  conversation  with  a  friend,  turns 
bemusedly  to  address  a  remark  to  another,  he  says: 
"  Hulloa,  you're  not  crying,  Essie?  " 

"Likely!  "  says  Essie,  blinking. 

"  You  are,  though.     What's  up?  " 


328  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  That's  the  sun  in  my  eyes." 

"  There's  precious  little  sun." 

Essie  dabs  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief  and  gives 
a  Uttle  sniff.     "  Well,  there's  precious  little  tears." 

"  Essie,  you  asked  me  if  I  was  fond  of  you." 

She  turns  upon  him  with  sudden  sharpness.  "  More 
fool  me  then." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  Essie,  I  am.  I'm  very,  very 
fond  of  you." 

"  Come  on,"  says  Essie  briskly.  "  We'll  be  late.  I 
was  only  having  a  game  —  so  are  you." 

II 

Here  is  a  new  idea  for  Mr.  Wriford  —  come  to  him 
suddenly,  but,  as  now  he  sees,  in  process  of  coming 
these  many  days.  Here  is  a  new  idea,  completely  de- 
veloped in  that  swift  moment  while  Essie  asked  him: 
"  What,  are  you  fond  of  me,  Arthur?  "  but  over  whose 
development  now  constantly  he  ponders  —  welding  it, 
shaping  it,  assuring  himself  of  it  in  its  every  detail. 
It  is  solution  —  no  less  —  of  what  has  hounded  him 
these  many  years.  It  is  discovery  of  what  shall  fill  that 
vacant  place  over  which,  in  the  quietude  of  these  more 
recent  days,  dispassionately  he  has  puzzled.  Essie 
the  solution:  Essie  the  thing  that  shall  fill  up  the 
vacancy.  He  wonders  he  has  not  thought  of  it  before. 
Who,  out  of  the  turmoil,  the  hopelessness,  the  abject 
misery  in  which  he  came  here,  who  found  him  the  quie- 
tude? Essie.  Who  for  the  old  grinding  torments,  the 
abysmal  fears,  has  exchanged  him  the  dispassionate 
wondering?  Essie.  Look,  look  upon  the  present  state 
that  now  is  his,  contrast  it  with  the  old,  and  seek  who 


OUR  ESSIE  329 

is  responsible.  Essie.  His  early  constraint  in  the 
Bickers'  household  is  vanished  as  completely  as  his 
early  miseries  at  the  Tower  House  School.  He  is  con- 
fident and  at  ease  and  actively  interested  when  among 
his  boys.  Who  showed  him  the  way  of  it?  Essie.  In 
the  life  behind  the  plumber's  shop  he  is  become  very  inti- 
mately the  "  one  of  us  like  "  that  Mrs.  Bickers,  at  their 
first  meeting,  had  told  him  they  liked  their  lodgers  to 
be.  By  whose  agency?  Essie's.  Essie  has  told  Mother 
and  Dad  his  name  is  Arthur  and  to  call  him  Arthur:  and 
Arthur  he  is  become,  alike  to  the  cert,  plumber,  who 
delights  to  instruct  him  in  the  mysteries  of  plumbing 
and  often  from  his  workshop  in  the  yard  hails  him 
"Arthur!  Arthur,  come  an'  look  at  this  here!  I'm 
fixin'  a  new  weight  to  a  ball-tap;  "  and  to  Mrs.  Bickers 
who  as  often  as  not  adds  a  "  dear  "  to  it  and  says: 
''  Arthur,  dear,  give  over  talking  to  Essie  a  minute  an' 
jus'  see  if  you  can't  put  that  shop  bell  to  rights  Hke  Mr. 
Bickers  showed  you  how.  It's  out  of  order  again." 
Who  to  this  pleasant  homeliness  introduced  him? 
Essie.  Who  supports  him  in  its  enjoyment?  Essie. 
Who  is  the  centre,  the  mainspring  of  this  happy  house- 
hold? Essie.  Essie,  Essie,  Essie,  jolly  and  good  and 
pretty  httle  Essie!  He  meets  her  at  every  thought. 
She,  she,  suppHes  his  moods  at  every  turn! 

Very  well,  then.  The  school  term  at  Tower  House  is 
drawing  to  a  close.  Scarcely  a  fortnight  remains  before 
the  holidays  begin.    What  then? 

Ah,  then  the  new  thought  that  suddenly  has  come  to 
him.  In  the  quietude  of  mind,  in  the  dispassionate 
puzzlement  upon  what  it  is  that  he  has  missed  in  life  — 
in  this  convalescent  attitude  towards  life  that  now  is  his 
he  has  no  desire  to  return,  when  the  school  term  is 


330  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

ended  and  he  is  unemployed,  to  the  wandering,  to  the 
hopeless  quest  that  brought  him  here.  Why  not  ad- 
vance by  Essie  the  quietude  that  by  Essie  he  has  found? 
Why  not  by  Essie  fill  the  dispassionate  puzzlement  that 
by  Essie  has  become  dispassionate  where  for  so  long  it 
had  so  cruelly  been  frenzied?  What  if  he  went  away 
with  Essie?  What  if  he  took  her  away?  What  if  he  so 
far  resumed  touch  with  the  prosperity  that  waited  him 
in  London  as  to  get  money  from  his  agent,  due  to  him 
for  his  successful  novels,  and  go  away  wdth  Essie  —  Hve 
somewhere  in  retreat  with  Essie,  have  Essie  for  his  own? 
Why  not?  No  reason  why.  It  was  fixed  and  deter- 
mined in  his  mind  in  that  very  instant  when,  as  she 
asked  him  "  What,  are  you  fond  of  me,  Arthur?  "  it 
came  to  him. 

The  more  he  thinks  upon  it  the  more  completely  it 
attracts  him.  .  .  . 

He  thinks  upon  it,  and  it  attracts  him,  with  no  delu- 
sion of  what,  if  he  acts  upon  it,  it  will  give  him.  It  will 
not  give  him  positive  happiness.  He  would  take  Essie 
away  with  no  such  delusion  as  that.  But  strongly, 
seductively,  it  offers  him  a  negative  peace.  With  Essie 
no  need  longer  to  brood  on  what  it  was  in  life  that  he 
had  missed:  Essie  who  never  minded,  who  always 
brightened  him,  who  then  would  be  his  own  —  Essie 
would  stifle  that  old  hopeless  yearning.  There  would  be 
pleasure  in  money  with  Essie  —  pleasure  in  pleasing 
her,  in  watching  her  dehght  in  little  things  that  it  could 
buy.  He  first  would  travel  on  the  Continent  with 
Essie,  delighting  in  her  delight  at  worlds  of  which  she 
had  scarcely  so  much  as  heard.  How  she  would  laugh 
at  funny  foreigners  and  at  funny  foreign  ways!  Then 
he  would  settle  down,  take  a  house  somewhere,  Hve 


OUR  ESSIE  331 

quietly,  take  up  his  novel-writing  again,  have  Essie 
always  to  turn  to  when  he  wanted  her,  to  minister  to 
him  and  entertain  him,  and  have  her  —  being  Essie  — 
at  his  command  to  keep  out  of  his  way  when  he  wished 
to  work,  or  perhaps  to  think  —  ah,  for  thoughts  some- 
times still  would  Gome!  —  and  not  be  worried.  Yes  — 
jolly  little  Essie,  good  little  Essie  —  there  was  refuge, 
refuge  to  be  found  with  her!    Yes  —  pretty  little  Essie 

—  she  was  desirable,  desirable,  desirable  to  him !  Yes, 
let  it  be  done!  Yes,  let  him  immediately  set  about  the 
accomplishment  of  it! 

Ill 

His  purpose  was  no  sooner  definitely  fixed,  than  in 
the  way  of  its  fulfilment  practical  difiiculties  began  to 
arise.  They  arose  in  form  of  scruples.  He  intended  no 
harm  to  Essie.  She  never  should  suffer  in  smallest 
degree,  by  word  or  act,  in  giving  herself  to  him.  But 
to  marry  her  never  —  at  the  first  making  of  his  purpose 

—  so  much  as  crossed  his  mind.  A  Httle  later  this 
aspect  of  his  moral  intentions  towards  her  came  up  in 
his  thoughts  —  and  marriage  he  at  once  dismissed  as 
altogether  subversive  of  that  very  peace  of  mind  he 
anticipated  in  having  her  for  his  own.  To  marry  her, 
as  he  saw  it,  were  an  irrevocable  and  dreadful  step  that 
immediately  would  return  him  to  new  torments,  new 
despair.  Bound  for  life  to  such  as  Essie  was,  not  loving 
her,  only  very  fond  of  her,  very  grateful  to  her  —  why, 
the  bond  would  terrify  him  and  goad  him  as  much  as 
ever  he  was  terrified  and  goaded  by  the  bonds  and 
responsibilities  of  the  London  days  from  which  in  frenzy 
he  had  fled.     Misery  for  him  and,  knowing  himself, 


332  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

he  knew  that  he  would  visit  it  in  misery  upon  her. 
Panic  at  what  he  had  done  would  fill  him,  consume  him 
in  all  the  dreadful  forms  in  which  he  knew  his  panics, 
directly  he  had  done  it.  He  would  hate  her.  Despite 
himself,  despite  his  fondness  for  her,  despite  all  she  had 
given  him  and  could  give  him,  despite  all  these,  if  he 
were  bound  to  her  he  would  be  unkind  to  her,  cruel  to 
her.  Merely  and  without  bond  to  have  her  for  his  own 
presented  his  Essie  —  his  jolly  little  Essie,  good  Httle 
Essie,  pretty  Uttle  Essie  —  on  a  footing  immeasurably 
different.  That  very  fact  of  being  responsible  for  her 
without  being  bound  to  her  would  alone  —  and  without 
his  happiness  in  her  —  assure  her  of  his  constant  care. 
his  unfailing  protection  always  and  always.  Natured 
as  he  was  —  or  as  he  had  become  in  the  days  of  his 
stress  —  he  thought  of  bondage  as  utterly  intolerable 
to  him.  No;  marriage  was  worse  than  unthinkable, 
marriage  was  to  lose  —  and  worse  than  lose  —  the  very 
happiness  upon  which  now  he  was  determined. 

Yet  scruples  came. 

He  had  not  the  smallest  doubt  of  winning  Essie  to 
his  intentions  —  Essie  who  Hked  to  think  somebody 
was  fond  of  her,  who  liked  to  be  kissed,  who  had  con- 
fessed of  the  lodgers  that  "  most  of  'em  had  "  —  who, 
in  fact,  was  Essie  Bickers.  He  knew,  thinking  upon  it, 
what  had  been  in  pretty  little  Essie's  heart  when  she 
said  softly:  "What,  are  you  fond  of  me,  Arthur?" 
He  knew  it  was  that  she  loved  him.  He  knew  what  had 
been  in  her  heart  when,  having  said  it,  she  drew  away 
from  him,  and  he  knew  why  as  she  drew  away  he  had 
seen  tears  in  her  eyes.  He  knew  it  was  because,  having 
made  her  confession  of  love,  she  had  seen  no  response 
of  love  in  his  eyes  that  only  were  bemused  with  sudden 


OUR  ESSIE  333 

thought  upon  his  sudden  plan.     He  knew  he  had  only 
to  tell  her  that  she  was  wrong,  that  indeed  he  loved  her. 
Yet  scruples  came. 

IV 

He  set  about  his  plans.  On  the  morning  when  but  a 
week  remained  to  the  end  of  the  term  —  the  date  he 
had  fixed  in  his  mind  —  he  wrote  before  he  came  down 
to  breakfast  a  letter  to  his  agent  in  London. 

"  Dear  Lessingham, 

"  I'm  still  alive!  I've  been  wandering  —  getting  back 
my  health.  I  was  rather  run  down.  Now,  very  soon, 
I  hope  to  get  to  work  again.  Keep  it  to  yourself  that 
you've  heard  of  me  again.  I'll  be  seeing  you  soon. 
Meanwhile,  you've  got  a  pile  of  money  for  me,  haven't 
you?  I  want  you,  please,  to  send  me  at  once  £200  in 
£10  notes  to  this  address.    I'm  going  abroad  for  a  bit. 

"  Yours  ever, 

"  Philip  Wriford." 

Funny  to  be  in  touch  with  that  world  again !  He  put 
the  letter  in  his  pocket.  He  would  post  it  on  his  way  to 
school.  Imagine  Essie's  eyes  when  she  saw  all  that 
wealth!  He  could  hear  her  cry  —  he  imagined  himself 
showing  it  to  her  in  a  first-class  carriage  bound  for 
London  —  "  Oh,  Arthur!    Did  you  ever,  though!  " 

Smiling  upon  that  thought,  he  went  down-stairs  to 
the  parlour;  and  it  was  thus,  at  the  very  moment  as 
it  were  of  first  putting  out  his  hand  to  take  Essie,  that 
scruples  came. 

He  found  Mrs.  Bickers  seated  alone.  There  were 
sounds  of  Essie  gaily  humming  as  she  prepared  break- 


334  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

fast  in  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Bickers,  busily  sewing,  looked 
up  and  smiled  at  him.  "  Good  morning,  Arthur.  I 
declare  I  do  like  to  see  you  come  down  of  a  morning 
smiling  like  that.  Busy,  aren't  I?  So  early,  too!  "  and 
she  held  up  what  looked  to  be  a  blouse  that  she  was 
making,  and  told  him:  "  That's  for  our  Essie!  " 

The  smile  went  from  his  face  and  from  his  thoughts. 
"  Our  Essie!  "  Only  now  that  phrase,  and  what  it 
meant,  entered  his  calculations  on  his  purpose;  and  with 
it  the  thought  of  his  smiles  which  Mrs.  Bickers  had  been 
so  glad  to  see  —  and  what  they  meant. 

He  desired  to  turn  the  conversation;  yet  even  as  he 
made  answer  he  knew  his  words  were  leading  him  deeper 
into  it.  "  Why,  you're  not  surprised  to  see  me  smihng, 
are  you,  Mrs.  Bickers?  "  he  said.  "  This  is  what  I  call 
a  very  smiling  house,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Bickers  set  down  her  work  on  her  lap  and 
smiled  anew.  "  Well,  that's  good  news,"  she  said. 
"  Ah,  and  it's  not  always  been  either,  Arthur." 

"  Hasn't  it,  Mrs.  Bickers?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  it  hasn't!  Why,  Mr.  Bickers  and  me  we 
had  a  heap  of  trouble  one  time." 

"  But  you're  very  happy  now?  " 

"  I've  been  happy,"  said  Mrs.  Bickers,  smiling  again, 
"  eighteen  years  and  three  —  four  —  eighteen  years  and 
four  months." 

"  That  means  ever  since  something?  " 

"  Ever  since  our  Essie  came,"  said  Mrs.  Bickers  softly. 

Our  Essie!  Ah!  He  said  dully:  "  Yes,  you  must  be 
fond  of  Essie?  " 

"  Fond!  "  Mrs.  Bickers  echoed  him.  "  Why,  Arthur, 
she's  all  the  world  to  Mr.  Bickers  an'  me,  our  Essie. 
She's  such  a  bright  one!     Our  Essie  came  to  us  very 


OUR  ESSIE  335 

late  in  life,  and  you  know  I  reckon  we've  never  had  a 
minute's  trouble  since.  Looking  back  on  what  we'd 
had  before,  that's  why  we  say,  Mr.  Bickers  an'  me, 
that  we  reckon  she  was  a  gift  sent  straight  out  of 
heaven.  We're  sure  of  it.  Brought  up  with  old  folk  like 
us,  she'd  grow  up  quiet  and  odd  like  some  children  are, 
wouldn't  you  think?  Or  Ukely  enough  discontented, 
finding  it  dull?  But  you've  only  got  to  look  at  our 
Essie  to  feel  happy.  There's  not  many  can  say  that  of  a 
daughter,  not  for  every  bit  of  eighteen  years,  Arthur. 
We  reckon  we're  uncommon  blessed,  Mr.  Bickers  an' 
me." 

In  comes  Essie  with  a  steaming  dish:  "  Oh,  these 
sausages,  Mother!  Jus'  look  at  them  sizzling!  Oh, 
aren't  they  funny,  though!  " 

He  does  not  post  his  letter  on  the  way  to  school. 
He  does  not  post  it  on  the  way  back  from  school.  He 
carries  it  up-stairs  again  in  his  pocket  when  he  goes  to 
bed.     Scruples ! 

Scruples  —  he  Ues  awake  and  reasons  the  scruples; 
he  tosses  restlessly  and  damns  the  scruples.  Scruples! 
In  the  morning  he  has  settled  them.  He  rises  very  early 
before  the  house  is  astir.  He  comes  down  to  post  his 
letter  and  goes  at  once  through  the  back  yard  which 
offers  nearer  way  to  the  letter-box. 

"  Hulloa,  Arthur!    Why,  you're  up  early!  " 

This  time  it  is  Mr.  Bickers,  hailing  him  through  the 
open  door  of  his  workshop  where  he  is  busily  occupied 
with  blow-jSame  and  soldering-irons. 

"  Well,  not  so  early  as  you,  Mr.  Bickers.  I  thought 
I  was  first  for  once." 

The   cert,    plumber   laughs,    evidently   well-pleased. 


336  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

"  Come  along  in  an'  give  a  hand.  Soldering,  this  is. 
Me!  I'm  never  abed  after  five  o'clock  summer- 
times." 

"  I  often  think  you're  wonderfully  young  for  your 
years,  Mr.  Bickers." 

Another  laugh  of  satisfaction.  "  I'm  younger  than  I 
was  a  score  years  back;   and  that's  a  fact,  Arthur." 

"  What's  the  secret  of  it?  " 

"  Why,"  says  Mr.  Bickers,  "  there  is  a  secret  to  it, 
sure  enough.  It's  this  way,  Arthur.  Now  you  put  the 
solder-pot  on  the  lamp  again.  There's  matches.  This 
way  —  I  was  fifty-two  years  growing  old,  and  I've  been 
close  on  nineteen  years  growing  young.  Ever  since  — 
Hullo!   careful  with  it!  " 

"  Ever  since  —  ? "  says  Mr.  Wriford,  his  head 
averted,  fumbUng  with  the  lamp,  fumbling  with  his 
thoughts. 

"  Ever  since  our  Essie  came  to  us." 

"  Yes,"  says  Mr.  Wriford,  and  adds  "  Yes,  that's 
much  what  Mrs.  Bickers  was  telling  me  only  yester- 
day." 

"Why,  it's  the  same  with  both  of  us,"  says  Mr. 
Bickers;  and  then  changes  his  voice  to  the  voice  that 
Mr.  Wriford  recognises  for  that  in  which  he  reads  the 
scriptural  portions  at  night.  "  You  mark  this  from  me, 
Arthur,"  Mr.  Bickers  continues.  "  You're  a  young 
man.    You  mark  what  I  tell  you  —  " 

Necessary  to  face  Mr.  Bickers  while  he  tells  —  to 
face  that  serene  old  countenance,  those  steady  eyes, 
that  earnest  voice.  "  Prayers  aren't  always  answered 
the  way  you  expect,  Arthur.  You'll  find  that.  There's 
man's  way  of  reckoning  how  a  thing  ought  to  be  done, 
and  there's  God's  way.    We'd  had  uncommon  trouble, 


OUR   ESSIE  337 

Mrs.  Bickers  an'  me,  a  score  years  back,  and  we 
prayed  our  ways  for  to  ease  it.  Essie  came.  God's 
way.  Our  Essie  come  to  us  a  blessing  straight  out  of 
heaven." 

Necessary  to  face  him,  necessary  to  hear  in  his  voice, 
to  see  in  his  eyes,  to  watch  in  the  radiation  that  fills 
up  the  careworn  lines  about  his  mouth  and  on  his  brow 
—  necessary  to  hear  and  to  see  there  what  ''  Our  Essie  " 
means  to  him. 

Necessary  to  say  something.  ...  To  say  what? 
Mr.  Wriford  can  only  find  the  words  he  said  yesterday 
to  Mrs.  Bickers.  He  says:  "  Yes,  you  must  be  fond  of 
Essie." 

"  Fond!  "  says  Mr.  Bickers.  "  I'll  tell  you  this  to  it, 
Arthur.  I'll  tell  you  just  what  our  Essie  is  to  us. 
There's  a  verse  we  say  night  and  morning,  Mrs.  Bickers 
an'  me,  when  we're  returning  thanks  for  our  blessing: 
'  Through  the  tender  mercy  of  our  God,  whereby  the 
dayspring  from  on  high  hath  visited  us.'  That's  our 
Essie." 

The  dayspring  from  on  high!  Irreverent,  in  Mr. 
Wriford's  dim  recollection  of  the  text,  in  its  application 
to  Essie.  He  tries  to  laugh  at  it.  How  laugh  at  it? 
Dayspring  —  ah,  that  is  she!  She  is  that  in  her  per- 
petual vitality,  in  her  bubbling,  ceaseless,  bottomless 
well  of  spirits.  She  is  that  to  him,  and  therefore  he 
requires  her,  requires  her.  Ah,  she  is  that  to  them! 
Scruples  —  scruples  —  infernal  scruples  —  ridiculous 
scruples.  He  means  no  harm  to  her.  God  knows  he 
means  nothing  but  happiness  to  her.  Yet  the  day 
passes.  He  defers  his  intention  to  post  his  letter  till 
after  breakfast.  He  goes  to  school  and  defers  it  till  the 
luncheon  hour.     He  goes  then  for  a  walk  and  defers 


338  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

it  till  he  is  coming  home.    He  comes  home  and  brings 
his  letter  with  him. 

Scruples  —  damn    them!     Scruples  —  damn   himself 
for  entertaining  tliem! 


CHAPTER   IX 

NOT   TO   DECEIVE   HER 


Let  Essie  decide!  That  is  the  decision  to  which  he 
comes,  with  which  he  stills  his  scruples.  He  desires  her. 
The  more  he  reflects  upon  possession  of  her  —  his  to 
amuse  him,  to  run  his  house  that  he  will  take  for  her, 
to  make  him  laugh,  not  to  interfere  with  him,  requiring 
nothing  from  him  but  what  he  shall  choose  to  give  her 
—  the  more  he  visions  this  prospect,  the  more  ardently 
it  attracts  him.  There  he  sees  that  vacant  place  in  his 
life  filled  up;  there  he  sees  sufi&ciently  attained  the  se- 
cret of  happiness  that  he  has  missed;  there,  belonging 
to  him,  he  sees  her  —  jolly  little  Essie  —  filling,  hiding, 
forgetting  him  his  endless  quest,  his  hopeless  hopeless- 
ness, his  old-time  miserable  misery.  He  cannot  marry 
her.  He  does  not  love  her.  He  could  not  be  mated  — 
for  life !  —  to  such  as  she  in  all  her  funny  little  phrases 
reveals  herself  to  be.  He  only  wants  her.  Then  come 
the  scruples.  Well,  let  Essie  decide!  She  shall  know 
his  every  intention,  his  every  feeling.  He  will  not  even 
so  far  delude  her  as  to  tell  her  he  loves  her.  If  she  who 
loves  him  is  willing  to  go  with  him,  what  need  matter 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bickers  with  their  devotion  to  our  Essie? 
What  are  they  to  him?  Why  should  they  interfere 
with  his  life?    What  are  they  to  Essie  if  he  —  as  he  will 

339 


340  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

be  —  is  everything  to  her?  And  then,  with  "  Let  Essie 
decide,"  he  finalh'^  crushes  under  foot  all  of  scruples, 
all  of  conscience,  that  remain  after  this  review  of  his 
resolve:  finally,  for  this  is  his  last  and  comforting  and 
confident  resolve  —  that  if  Essie  is  shocked  and  fright- 
ened and  will  not,  he  will  immediately  accept  it:  what- 
ever the  temptation  will  nothing  deceive  or  trick  her, 
not  by  so  much  as  a  look  pretend  he  loves  her,  immedi- 
ately leave  her  and  immediately  return  to  the  old  hope- 
lessness, the  old  quest,  the  old  emptiness  of  all  his  for- 
mer years. 

Decided!  His  scruples  stilled!  Himself  assured, 
absolved!    Let  Essie  decide  it.    Now  to  act. 

II 

This  is  Thursday.  He  has  carried  that  letter  nearly 
a  week  unposted  in  his  pocket.  To-morrow  the  Tower 
House  School  breaks  up.  On  Saturday  Mrs.  Bickers 
and  Essie  are  going  for  a  three  weeks'  summer  holiday 
to  Whitecliffe  Sands,  which  is  an  hour  away  on  the  Nor- 
folk coast,  and  it  has  been  decided  a  month  before  that 
he  is  to  accompany  them  for  their  first  week  as  Mrs. 
Bickers'  guest.  The  kindly  invitation  had  been  made, 
and  he  had  gratefully  accepted  it,  in  the  period  before 
this  sudden  thought  of  filling  with  Essie  that  vacant 
comer  in  the  room  of  his  life:  in  the  period  when  he 
had  been  content  dispassionately  to  drift  along  until 
the  holidays  should  terminate  his  engagement  —  dis- 
passionately to  leave  till  then  conjecture  upon  what 
he  next  should  do. 

This  summer  visit  to  Whitecliffe  Sands  was,  as  he 
then  learned,  an  annual  excursion.     Mr.  Bickers  stays 


NOT  TO  DECEIVE  HER  341 

with  the  shop,  but  closes  it  and  comes  down  to  mother 
and  Essie  every  Saturday  until  Monday.  When  only 
that  month  remained  before  the  hoUday  came,  discus- 
sion of  the  subject  became  Essie's  chief  topic  of  conver- 
sation at  supper  every  evening;  all  aglitter  it  made  her 
with  reminiscences  of  Whitecliffe's  past  delights  and 
with  anticipations  of  its  fond  excitements  now  to  be 
renewed:  the  pier  that  has  been  opened  since  last  sum- 
mer, the  concert  party  that  will  reopen  its  season  there 
just  before  they  arrive,  the  progress  she  has  made  and 
means  to  make  in  swimming,  the  white  shoes  she  is  go- 
ing to  buy,  the  new  coat  and  skirt  that  she  and  mother 
are  making  because  "  My  goodness,  you  don't  have  to 
look  half  smart  on  the  parade,  evenings!  " 

In  the  midst  of  this  had  come  one  evening  Mrs. 
Bickers'  "  What  about  Arthur?  "  and  then,  to  his 
rather  rueful  smile  and  announcement  that  he  had  no 
plans  as  yet  beyond  the  end  of  the  tenn,  her  kindly 
proposal,  evidently  arranged  beforehand  with  Mr. 
Bickers:  "  Well,  I  tell  you  what  would  be  very  nice, 
Arthur  dear,  that  is,  if  you  haven't  got  another  job  of 
work  immediately  by  then.  Me  and  Mr.  Bickers  have 
had  a  talk  about  it.  We'd  like  you  to  come  with  Essie 
an'  me  jus'  till  Mr.  Bickers  comes  down  after  our  first 
week.  There's  his  nice  room  you  could  have  in  our 
lodgings,  and  you'd  be  just  our  guest  like.  A  nice  blow 
by  the  sea  would  do  you  a  world  of  good,  an'  nice  for 
our  Essie  to  have  a  companion." 

Essie  had  clapped  her  hands  in  immense  delight: 
he  had  accepted  with  marks  in  his  eyes  and  voice  of  a 
return  of  that  sense  of  being  overwhelmed  by  this  house- 
hold's kindness  that  in  the  early  days  here  often  over- 
whelmed him.    Now  he  set  his  teeth  against  consider- 


342  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

ation  of  that  aspect.  Let  Essie  decide!  He  might  take 
her  away  to-morrow  or  on  Saturday  morning:  it  might 
be  easier  to  wait  and  sHp  off  one  day  from  WhitecHffe. 
Let  Essie  decide! 

That  evening  he  asked  her. 

in 

The  night  was  fine  for  a  stroll  after  supper.  They 
passed  together  up  the  main  street  of  the  town  towards 
the  Gardens  —  Essie  desperately  excited  with  the  im- 
mediate nearness  of  WhitecHffe  and  attracted  by  all 
the  shops  in  case  there  was  something  she  had  not  yet 
bought  for  the  holiday:  himself  revolving  in  his  mind 
how  best  to  open  his  proposal.  He  wished  to  do  it  at 
once.    He  found  it  very  difficult  to  begin. 

"  Oh,  those  parasols!  "  cried  Essie,  stopping  before 
a  brightly-illuminated  window.  "Do  stop,  Arthur. 
That  sort  of  blue  one  with  lace!  Did  you  ever! 
Wouldn't  I  like  that  for  Whitecliffe  though!  Can  you 
see  the  ticket?  Nine-an'-eleven- three !  Oh,  talk  about 
dear!  " 

"  That's  not  really  expensive,  Essie." 

"  My  goodness,  it  is  for  me,  though  Ten  shiUings, 
Arthur!  " 

"  Essie,  would  you  like  to  be  rich?  " 

"  Oo,  wouldn't  I  just!  " 

"  What  would  you  say  if  I  was  rich,  Essie?  " 

Essie  turned  away  from  the  coveted  sunshade  and 
laughed  delightedly  at  him.  "  Goodness,  wouldn't  it 
be  funny!    I'd  say  what  ho!    What  ho!  " 

"  Essie,  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I  am  rich. 
I'm  what  you'd  call  very  rich." 


NOT  TO  DECEIVE  HER  343 

"  Picked  up  a  shilling,  have  you?  "  cried  Essie,  glee- 
fully entering  into  the  game.  "  Let's  go  into  the  bank 
and  invest  it!  " 

"  No,  we'll  go  in  here,"  said  Mr.  Wriford,  the  con- 
tents of  a  bookseller's  window  they  had  reached  giving 
him  a  sudden  idea.  "  We'll  go  in  here.  I'll  show  you 
something." 

She  caught  his  arm  as  he  stepped  towards  the  door. 
"  Whatever  do  you  mean?  " 

He  answered  her  very  intensely,  "  Essie,  be  serious. 
I've  a  lot  to  tell  you  to-night.  First  of  all,  I'm  rich. 
I've  only  been  pretending  all  the  time  I've  been  down 
here.    My  name's  not  Arthur  at  all.    It's  Philip  —  " 

Essie  made  a  laughing  grimace.  "  Ur!  Philip's  like 
skim  milk." 

Unheeding  her,  he  went  on.  "  Philip  Wriford.  I'm 
an  author  —  " 

"  Oh,  if  you  aren't  a  caution!  "  cried  Essie. 

"  You  don't  beheve  it?  " 

Essie  assumed  a  very  ingenuous  air.  "  Your  mistake, 
pardon  me.    I  wasn't  born  jus'  before  supper,  you  know." 

"  Will  you  believe  it  if  I  go  in  here  and  ask  to  see 
some  of  my  books?  " 

"  Oh,  wouldn't  I  like  to  see  you  dare!  " 

"  Come  along,"  and  he  stepped  inside  the  porch  of 
the  shop  and  opened  the  door. 

Essie,  half-laughing,  half-frightened  at  this  boldness, 
clutched  at  his  arm.  He  caught  her  hand  and  led  her 
within.  "  Oh,  if  you  aren't  a  caution  to-night!  "  Essie 
whispered.    "  Don't,  Arthur!   Arthur,  don't  be  so  bold!  " 

"  You've  got  to  believe." 

A  counter  at  the  end  of  the  shop  displayed  above  it 
the  words  "  Lending  Library."     Essie,  most  terribly 


344  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

red  in  the  face,  followed  him  while  he  stalked  to  it,  and 
then  stood  confounded  with  his  boldness  and  striving 
immensely  to  restrain  her  laughter  while  Mr.  Wriford 
addressed  the  young  woman  who  came  towards  them. 

"  Have  you  got  any  of  Philip  Wriford's  books  in  the 
library?  "  Mr.  Wriford  asked  her. 

"  We've  got  several  copies,"  he  was  told.  "  But 
they're  all  out.    There's  a  great  demand  for  them." 

His  eye  caught  the  top  volume  of  a  pile  of  books  on 
the  counter,  from  each  of  which  a  ticket  was  displayed, 
and  he  motioned  towards  it. 

"  Yes,  that's  his  last,"  the  young  woman  said,  "  but 
it's  ordered.    It's  going  out  to-morrow." 

"  I  can  look  at  it?  " 

"  Oh,  you  can  look  at  it.  If  you  hke  to  take  out  a 
subscription  by  the  week  or  longer,  you  can  put  your 
name  down  for  it.  There's  other  copies  out,"  and  she 
moved  away. 

Mr.  Wriford  took  up  the  book  with  something  of  a 
thrill  —  the  first  actively  stirring  thought  of  his  work 
since  he  had  fled  from  it.  It  was  the  book  he  had  deliv- 
ered to  his  agent  shortly  before  that  night  of  his  escape, 
and  had  seen  ecstatically  reviewed  in  the  paper  at  Pen- 
dra.  He  had  never  seen  it  in  print.  He  opened  it  at 
the  title  page.  "  Twelfth  Edition,"  he  read  aloud  to 
Essie.  "  You  know  what  that  means.  It  was  only 
published  in  the  autumn." 

"  How  do  you  know?  "  said  Essie. 

"  I  tell  you  I  wrote  it.    I  tell  you  I'm  Philip  Wriford." 

The  young  woman's  departure  permitted  Essie  to 
relieve  her  laughter.    "  Oh,  Arthur,  do  not!  "  she  cried. 

"  I  tell  you  it's  true."  He  turned  to  the  opening 
chapter  and  began  with  very  strange  sensations  to  read 


NOT  TO   DECEIVE  HER  345 

what  he  had  written  in  days  separated  from  the  present 
by  illimitable  gulfs  of  new  identity.  The  cunning  of 
his  own  hand,  thus  separated  from  the  identity  that 
now  read  the  words,  was  abundantly  apparent  to  him. 
There  was  a  nervous  and  arresting  force  in  the  first 
paragraph,  a  play  of  wit  above  a  searching  philosophy, 
that  called  up  and  strongly  attracted  his  literary  ap- 
preciation, dormant  beneath  the  stresses  of  his  past 
months. 

Occupied,  for  the  moment  he  forgot  Essie  standing 
by  his  side.  Her  voice  recalled  her  to  him.  She  was 
reading  over  his  shoulder,  and  reaching  the  end  of  the 
paragraph,  spoke  her  opinion. 

"  Isn't  it  silly,  though!  "  said  Essie. 

He  closed  the  book  and  put  it  down  and  turned  to 
her  and  looked  at  her.    "  Do  you  think  so?  "  he  said. 

"  Well,  don't  you?  "  cried  Essie.  "  I  never  read  such 
ridiculous  nonsense.  I'm  sure  if  you  were  an  author, 
Arthur,  you  couldn't  write  such  silly  stuff  as  that." 

He  laughed  a  trifle  vexedly.  "  Come  along,"  he  said, 
and  laughed  again,  this  time  to  himself  and  with  better 
humour,  as  they  came  into  the  street  and  turned  towards 
the  Gardens.  He  could  appreciate  the  blow  at  his  con- 
ceit: further,  this  Httle  scene  was  illuminating  demon- 
stration of  the  gulf  social  and  intellectual  between  him- 
self and  Essie,  and  somehow  that  approved  him  in  his 
intentions  towards  her:  what  vexed  him  now  was  only 
the  failure  of  this  sudden  plan  to  inform  Essie  of  his 
position  in  Hfe  and  so  to  give  him  opening  for  the  pro- 
posal he  intended. 

The  bookseller's  was  the  last  shop  in  the  High  Street. 
They  had  entered  the  Gardens  before  Essie,  consumed 
with  laughter,  could  find  words  for  comment.     Then 


346  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

she  said:  "  Oh,  Arthur,  if  you  weren't  a  fair  caution! 
I'd  never  have  thought  it  of  you!  " 

"  You  don't  beheve  it?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  I  don't!  " 

"  Well,  you've  got  to  believe  somehow  that  I've  got 
a  lot  of  money." 

"  Daresay  I  can  beheve  the  moon  is  made  of  green 
cheese  if  I  try  hard  enough.  I  say,  though,  serious, 
whatever  for  have  I  got  to  beheve  you're  rich?  " 

It  was  the  desired  opening.  He  shpped  his  hand  be- 
neath her  arm.  "  Because  I  want  to  spend  it  on  you, 
Essie.    I  want  to  make  you  happy  with  me." 

He  felt  and  heard  her  sharply  catch  her  breath.  He 
looked  down  at  her  and  saw  her  eyes  dim  and  her  face 
suffuse  in  sudden  rush  of  colour. 

"Oh,  Arthur!"  Essie  said  and  caught  her  breath 
again. 

"  Let's  go  up  to  our  seat,  Essie." 

IV 

In  silence  up  to  their  seat,  and  on  their  seat  a  little 
space  in  silence.  She  first  to  speak.  She,  while  he  sat 
determining  how  best  to  tell  her,  turned  to  him  eyes 
starry  as  the  stars  that  Ht  them,  in  which  still  and  deeper 
yet  he  saw  the  moisture  that  had  dimmed  them  a  mo- 
ment before,  and  still,  and  cloudier  yet,  her  face  all 
cloudy  red. 

She  said  very  softly:  "  What,  have  you  proposed  to 
me,  Arthur,  dear?  " 

He  was  prepared  for  anything  but  that.  He  was 
reassuring  himself,  while  they  waited  in  that  silence, 
upon  his  resolution  not  to  deceive  her,  not  even  to  pre- 


NOT  TO  DECEIVE  HER  347 

tend  he  loved  her  as  she  understood  love,  upon  his  de- 
termination, for  his  honour  and  for  hers  (so  he  con- 
vinced himself),  straitly,  without  deception,  without 
temptation,  to  throw  all  the  burden  of  decision  upon 
her  love  for  him.  This  "  What,  have  you  proposed  to 
me?  "  took  him  unawares.  It  caught  him  so  unexpect- 
edly that,  of  its  very  unexpectedness,  it  threw  out  of 
him  its  own  response  where,  had  he  first  imagined  such 
a  question,  to  fashion  answers  to  it  had  filled  him  with 
confusion,  nay,  with  dismay. 

Its  own  response!  It  came  to  him  as  a  question  so 
ludicrously  odd,  so  blundering,  so  inept,  ah,  so  char- 
acteristic of  jolly  Httle  Essie's  funny  little  ways,  that 
he  gave  a  Httle  laugh,  and  put  his  arm  about  her  shoul- 
ders, and  playfully  squeezed  her  to  him  and  laughed 
again  and  exclaimed  "  Essie!  " 

The  softness  left  her  voice,  the  dimness  her  eyes. 
"  Oh,  aren't  I  glad!  "  cried  Essie  and  snuggled  against 
him  and  said:  "  Oh,  hasn't  it  come  all  of  a  sudden, 
though!  " 

Her  funny  little  ways !  Close  she  was  against  him  — 
jolly  to  hold  her  thus:  his  arm  about  her,  her  face  close 
beneath  his  own,  his  other  hand  that  held  her  hand 
caressing  her  soft  warm  cheek  —  his  dear,  his  jolly 
Httle  Essie.  But  not  to  deceive  her!  Let  him  hold  to 
that.  Let  her  be  told  in  her  own  opportunity  that 
which  he  has  to  tell.    Let  him  lead  her  towards  it. 

He  asked  her  —  avoiding  her  question,  not  confirm- 
ing her  exclamation  —  "Do  you  love  me,  Essie?  " 

She  wriggled  herself  closer  up  to  him,  and  laughed 
at  him  with  those  soft  expressive  lips  and  with  those 
eyes  of  hers,  and  said  "Oh,  love  you!  "  as  though  love 
were  too  ridiculously  poor  a  word. 


348  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  Put  up  with  me,  Essie  —  always?  You  know  what 
I  am  sometimes." 

"  Put  up  with  you!  "  cried  Essie,  and  again  the  wriggle 
and  again  the  laugh,  and  then  said  "  What  a  way  to 
talk!  "  and  by  a  movement  of  her  face  towards  his  own 
made  as  if  to  kiss  such  talk  away. 

He  kept  himself  from  that.  Not  to  deceive  her! 
"  Suppose  I  made  you  miserable,  Essie?  " 

"  However  could  you?  " 

"  Suppose  I  did?    You  know  how  I  get  sometimes." 

"  Mean  when  you're  quiet?  "  said  Essie,  snuggUng. 
"  Of  course  you're  quiet  sometimes,  aren't  you?  My 
goodness,  I  don't  mind.  I'd  just  have  a  jolly  laugh  by 
myself." 

Her  funny  little  ways!  He  was  fighting  against  them. 
They  urged  him  that  they  were  in  themselves  just  what 
attracted  him  —  always  to  have  them  to  turn  to  in  his 
moodiness.  Ah,  not  to  deceive  her!  He  said  heavily: 
"  I  don't  mean  that,  Essie.  Suppose  —  suppose  I  made 
you  more  miserable  than  that?  Suppose  I  told  you 
something  that  made  you  think  I  couldn't  be  fond  of 
you?  " 

She  asked  him  quickly:  "  What,  been  engaged  before, 
have  you?  " 

"  I've  been  lots  of  things.    I'm  going  to  tell  you." 

He  felt  her  stiffen.  "  I  only  want  to  hear  this  one. 
Why  didn't  you  marry  her?  " 

"  I  think  because  she  wouldn't  marry  me." 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  cried  Essie,  and  wriggled.  "  Isn't  this 
awful !  Oh,  don't  I  hate  her,  though !  Whyever  wouldn't 
she?  " 

Here  was  a  way  to  tell  her.  What  if  it  meant  to  lose 
her?    Here  was  the  opportunity.    Let  him  hold  to  his 


NOT  TO  DECEIVE  HER  349 

vow!  He  said  deeply:  "  Essie,  because  she  knew  me 
too  well.  She  knew  some  of  what  you've  got  to  know, 
Essie.     She'd  tell  you." 

"  Like  her  to  try!  "  said  Essie  and  sat  up  with  a  jerk. 

He  could  face  her  now.  There  she  was,  his  jolly  little 
Essie,  looking  so  fierce,  breathing  so  quickly.  Tell  her 
and  lose  her?  Clasp  her  and  kiss  away  that  angry  httle 
frown?  Not  to  deceive  her!  Hold,  hold  to  that!  He 
began:  "She'd  tell  you  —  what  I've  got  to  tell  you. 
She'd  tell  you  —  listen  to  me,  Essie.  What  would  you 
do  if  she  told  you  I'd  make  you  —  or  anybody  —  un- 
happy? That  I'm  all  —  all  wrong,  all  moods,  all  utterly 
impossible?  Essie,  that  I  can't  love  anybody  really  — 
not  even  you?  That  I'm  not  to  be  trusted?  That  I 
can't  trust  myself?  That  I'd  marry  and  then  —  then 
pretty  well  go  mad  to  think  I  was  married  and  do  any- 
thing to  get  out  of  it?  That  all  I  want,  that  what  I 
want,  Essie,  is  —  is  not  exactly  to  marry?  Essie,  do 
you  understand?  That  so  long  as  I  felt  free,  perhaps  — 
perhaps  —  I'd  be  all  right  —  perhaps  be  kind?  " 

He  stopped.  She  was  sitting  bolt  upright,  staring 
straight  before  her  into  the  night,  her  pretty  lips  com- 
pressed, and  he  could  hear  her  breathing  —  short  and 
quick  and  sharp. 

He  said:  "  Essie,  what  would  you  do  —  what  would 
you  do  if  she  told  you  that?  " 

She  turned  sharply  towards  him.  "  Do? "  cried 
Essie.  He  could  see  how  she  quivered.  "  I  tell  you 
what  I'd  do!  I'd  take  my  hand  and  I'd  give  her  such 
a  slap  in  the  face  as  she  wouldn't  forget  in  a  hurry,  I 
know!  " 

He  laughed  despite  himself.  But  he  cried:  "If  it 
was  true,  Essie?    If  it  was  true?  " 


350  THE  .CLEAN  HEART 

"  Give  her  another!  "  said  Essie.    "  Such  a  one!  " 

Her  funny  little  ways!  He  gave  an  exclamation  and 
caught  her  to  him.  She  was  rigid  in  her  indignant  heat. 
He  clasped  her  and  turned  her  face  to  his.  "  Oo-oo!  " 
cried  Essie,  "  Oo-oo!  "  and  relaxed,  and  snuggled,  and 
put  her  mouth  to  his.  He  laughed  freely  —  bitterly  — 
recklessly.  How  treat  her  as  others  than  her  class 
should  be  treated?  Why  treat  her  so?  He  cried:  "  Es- 
sie, you're  impossible!"  and  squeezed  her  in  reproof 
of  her  and  in  helpless  desire  of  her,  and  cried:  "  Essie! 
Essie!    Essie!  " 

She  laughed  and  clung  to  him;  laughed  and  kissed 
him  kiss  for  kiss.  She  said  presently,  only  murmuring, 
so  close  their  lips:  "Wouldn't  I  just  though!  Hard 
as  I  could  I'd  fetch  her  such  a  couple  of  slaps!  Oo-oo! 
Oh,  I  say,  Arthur!  Why,  I  never  heard  such  things! 
I  never  heard  such  a  caution  as  she  must  have  been! 
Jus'  because  you're  quiet,  dear  —  that's  what  it  was. 
One  of  that  fast  lot.  That's  what  she  was.  Don't  I 
know  them,  though!  " 

He  was  just  holding  her,  kissing  her,  laughing  at  her. 
Why  not?  He'd  not  wrong  her  till  she  understood  — 
that  was  his  new  assurance.  At  Whitecliffe  he'd  take 
her,  and  tell  her  there  so  that  not  possibly  she'd  mis- 
understand him.  Not  to  deceive  her  —  he'd  not  de- 
ceived her  yet. 

Swiftly  deception  came. 

"  Won't  we  be  happy  though! " 

"  Won't  we!  "  he  answered  her. 

"  Won't  I  take  care  of  you  just!  " 

"  That's  what  I  want,  Essie!    That's  what  I  want!  " 

"  Quiet  as  you  like,  dear.    I  shan't  mind." 

"  Essie,  I'll  make  you  happy  —  happy." 


NOT  TO  DECEIVE  HER  351 

"  Just  think  of  Mother  and  Dad  when  we  tell  them! 
They  aren't  half  fond  of  you,  Mother  and  Dad." 

The  beginning  of  it.  "  We  won't  tell  them  —  yet," 
he  said. 

"  What,  have  a  secret?  " 

"  Just  for  a  day  or  two  —  just  till  Whitecliffe." 

"  Oh,  isn't  that  fine,  though,  to  have  it  a  secret  by 
ourselves!  " 

"  Fine,  Essie." 

"  Not  long  though.  I  couldn't  keep  it  above  a 
week!  " 

"  Just  a  week,  Essie." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  her  lips  on  his.  And  very 
silent  he. 

She  said:  "  You're  not  really  rich,  dear?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"  Perhaps  you  only  said  it  —  just  because.  I  know 
how  things  pop  out.  That  doesn't  matter.  Look,  I 
shouldn't  be  half  surprised  if  Dad'll  give  you  a  job  of 
work  in  his  shop  when  he  knows  we're  engaged." 

"  It's  true,  Essie.     Rich  as  rich." 

"  You've  never  got  as  much  as  fifty  pounds?  " 

"  Heaps  more  than  that." 

"  Oh,  if  ever!  We'll  never  have  a  jolly  little  house 
of  our  own?  " 

"  We  will,  though.    A  jolly  one." 

Silent  again.  She  was  smiling,  dreaming.  And  silent 
he.  He  was  thinking,  thinking.  A  striking  clock  dis- 
turbed her.  "  Eleven!  Oh,  would  you  believe  it!  If 
we  don't  hurry,  we'll  have  to  tell  them  —  to  explain." 

"  We'll  hurry,"  he  said;  and  he  added:  "  We  must 
keep  our  secret,  Essie." 

She  was  out  of  his  arms  in  her  surprise  at  the  hour. 


352  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

Something  in  his  voice  made  her  look  at  him  quickly. 
"  There,  you're  quiet  now  —  like  you  are  sometimes," 
she  said. 
He  told  her  "I'm  thinking  —  of  you." 
At  that  she  suddenly  was  in  his  arms  again,  her  hands 
about  his  neck.     '*  There's  one  thing,"  she  whispered 
and  drew  down  his  face.    "  Oh,  there's  one  thing!  " 
He  asked  her  "  What?  " 

"  Jus'  tell  me  how  you  love  me.    You've  not  said  it." 
Not  to  deceive  her!    "  As  if  I  need,  Essie?  " 
"  But  I  want  you  to.    Jus'  say  it  so  I  can  remember 
it." 

Not  to  deceive  her!  He  stroked  her  face.  "As  if  I 
need,  Essie!    Why  should  you  want  me  to?  " 

She  told  him:  "Well,  but  of  course  you  need.  Of 
course  I  want  you  to.  Oh,  isn't  that  jus'  what  a  girl 
wants  to  hear,  Arthur?  Why,  haven't  I  laid  awake  at 
night,  loving  you  over  and  over,  and  thought  how  it 
would  be  to  hear  you  say  it!  Do  jus'  say  it  to  me, 
dear." 

Not  to  deceive  her!  —  not  even  to  pretend  he  loved 
her  as  she  understood  love!  Ah,  here  at  the  stake  was 
his  vow  —  caught,  brought  at  last  to  the  burning.  Eva- 
sions had  saved  it,  hidden  it,  preserved  it  to  him  un- 
broken: here  it  was  dragged  to  the  open.  As  he  had 
nerved  himself  to  try  to  tell  her,  so  now  he  strengthened 
himself  to  hold  to  his  resolution.  Ah,  as  at  enticement 
of  her  funny  little  ways  he  could  not  resist  her,  so  now, 
by  sudden  yearning  in  her  cry,  fear  to  lose  her  overcame 
him.  She  suddenly  had  change  of  her  fresh  young 
voice;  she  suddenly,  as  he  waited,  and  she  felt  his  arms 
relax,  most  passionately  was  pressed  against  him,  and 
suddenly,  with  a  break,  in  a  cry,  entreatingly  besought 


NOT  TO  DECEIVE  HER  353 

him :  "  Ah,  do  jus'  put  your  arms  around  me,  dear, 
and  hold  me  close  and  say  you  love  me.    Do!  " 

Why  not?  How  not?  Thrice  fool,  thrice  fool  to  hes- 
itate! These  that  she  asked  were  only  words,  and  all 
his  plans  and  all  his  happiness  at  stake  upon  them. 
This  not  the  deeper  step  —  nothing  irrevocable  here. 
Who,  with  such  as  Essie,  would  scruple  as  he  scrupled? 
Who  such  a  fool?  Who  had  suffered  of  life  as  he  had 
suffered?  Who,  in  his  case,  would  hold  away  relief  as 
he  was  holding  it?  She  should  decide.  He'd  hold  to 
that.    By  God,  by  God,  he'd  seal  her  to  him  first! 

He  said:  "  I  love  you,  Essie." 

Holding  her,  he  could  feel  the  sigh  she  gave  run 
through  her  as  though  all  her  spirit  trembled  in  her 
ecstasy.  She  whispered:  "  Put  your  face  down  on 
mine." 

He  put  his  cheek  to  hers.    Her  cheek  was  wet. 

"  Are  you  crying,  Essie?  " 

She  pressed  closer  to  him. 

"  Why  are  you  crying?  " 

She  murmured:  "  Well,  haven't  I  wanted  this!  Isn't 
it  what  I've  always  wanted!  Say  it  again,  dear.  With 
your  face  on  mine  and  with  your  arms  around  me  say  it." 

"  I  love  you,  Essie." 

Only  words  —  no  harm  in  that.  Only  words!  At 
Whitecliffe  he'd  tell  her,  and  she,  as  he'd  sworn,  should 
decide.  Only  words  —  only  words,  but  he'd  not  lose 
her  now! 

As  they  walked  home,  he  posted  his  letter. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  DREAM 


"  Registered  letter  for  you,"  cried  Essie.  "  My 
goodness  if  there  isn't!  " 

This  was  in  the  little  sitting-room  of  the  Whitecliffe 
Sands  lodgings  —  the  fifth  morning  there;  Mr.  Bickers 
expected  on  the  morrow;  Mr.  Wriford,  as  had  been 
arranged  when  he  was  invited  for  the  blow  by  the  sea 
that  would  do  him  a  world  of  good,  supposed  to  be  leav- 
ing on  the  same  day;  and  Essie,  as  they  walked  the 
parade  together  before  breakfast,  in  highest  state  of 
excitement  and  mystification  at  Arthur's  insistence  that 
their  secret  should  be  kept  till  then  and  then  should 
be  revealed  — ■  if  Essie  wished  it. 

"  Well,  but  aren't  you  a  tease,  though!  "  said  Essie 
delightedly,  as  this  was  repeated  while  they  came  in  to 
where  the  registered  letter  awaited  them  on  the  break- 
fast-table. "  Aren't  you  a  fair  tease!  *  If  I  want  to!  * 
Why,  aren't  I  simply  dying  to  just!  I'm  simply  burst- 
ing to  tell  Mother  every  single  minute.  Isn't  a  secret 
a  caution  though  —  just  like  when  you've  got  a  hole 
in  your  dress  and  think  everybody's  looking  at  it.  Oh, 
isn't  it  funny  how  you  do  when  you  have,  though?  Let's 
have  a  laugh!  " 

The  laughter  brought  them  to  the  registered  letter 

354 


THE  DREAM  355 

and  to  Essie's  exclamation  at  It;  and  then,  as  she  han- 
dled the  packet,  readdressed  in  Mr.  Bickers'  clerkly 
script,  and  gave  it  to  Mr.  Wriford:  "  Feels  to  me  as  if 
some  one's  sent  you  a  pocket-handkerchief,"  said  Essie. 

"  That  shows  you  don't  know  what  a  honeymoon 
ticket  feels  like,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  and  fingered  the 
bundle  of  banknotes  within  their  parchment  cover. 
"  Listen  to  the  crinkling.  That's  the  confetti  they 
always  pack  it  in." 

Essie  was  highly  amused.  "  Hasn't  being  engaged 
made  you  different,  though!  You're  jolly  as  anything 
down  here.    Aren't  I  glad!  " 

"  It's  you  that's  made  me  different,"  Mr.  Wriford 
declared;  and  "  Oo-oo!  "  cried  Essie  at  what  went  with 
this  assurance.  "  Oo-oo!  Look  out,  here's  Mother 
coming." 

Mrs.  Bickers'  appearance,  and  then  all  the  jolly  chat- 
ter at  breakfast,  and  afterwards  the  morning  bathe  and 
the  rest  of  the  usual  programme  of  Whitecliffe's  delights, 
caused  the  mysterious  registered  letter  to  go  —  as  she 
would  have  said  —  clean  out  of  Essie's  head.  Mr. 
Wriford,  when  he  had  a  moment  alone,  opened  it  and 
read  it,  and  found  within  it,  thrice  repeated,  a  phrase 
that  intensely  he  chorused  as  he  put  letter  and  the 
twenty  ten-pound  notes  in  his  pockets  and  looked  upon 
the  immediate  plans  that  now  were  all  ripe  for  execution. 

II 

"  Your  return  to  life  "  was  this  phrase  that  the  liter- 
ary agent  three  times  repeated  in  the  course  of  his  en- 
thusiastic delight  and  surprise  at  news  at  last  of  missing 
Mr.  Wriford.    He  gave  some  astonishing  figures  of  the 


356  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

sales  of  Mr.  Wriford's  books.  He  put  forward  what 
appeared  to  him  the  most  engaging  of  the  contracts 
which  pubHshers  were  longing  to  make.  He  ended  with 
How  soon  would  Mr.  Wriford  run  up  to  town  for  a  talk? 
or  should  Mr.  Lessingham  come  down?  "  Don't  let 
your  return  to  life  —  now  that  at  last  you  have  made 
it  —  give  me  a  moment's  longer  silence  than  you  can 
help." 

"  Return  to  life  "  —  that  was  the  phrase.  Essie's 
words  —  "  Hasn't  being  engaged  made  you  different, 
though?  "  —  that  was  the  illustration  of  it.  Return  to 
life!  Ay,  that  was  it,  ay,  that  was  his,  far,  far  more 
truly,  with  wonder  of  rebirth  immeasurably  more,  than 
ever  Lessingham  or  any  one  in  all  the  world  could  know. 
There  was  thrill  in  that  very  thought  that  none  but 
himself  knew  its  heights,  its  volume,  its  singing,  its 
radiant  intensity.  That  knowledge  was  his  own  as  in 
the  immediate  future  his  life  was  to  be  his  own  —  hfe 
without  a  care,  life  without  a  tie,  life  of  complete  aban- 
donment to  pleasure  of  work,  to  pleasure  of  sheer  pleas- 
ure, to  pleasure  of  jolly  little  Essie  always  to  turn  to,  to 
look  after,  to  make  happy,  and  yet  always  to  know  of 
her  that  if  he  wished  —  he  never  would  so  wish  —  he 
could  be  rid  of  her:  no  tie,  no  bond  —  happiness,  free- 
dom; freedom,  happiness! 

This  was  the  state  to  which,  with  a  sudden,  ecstatic 
soaring  as  it  were,  he  had  swung  away  from  the  evening 
of  saying  "  I  love  you,  Essie,"  and  of  posting  his  letter, 
through  these  laughing  days  at  Whitecliffe  Sands,  to 
now  when  arrival  of  the  honeymoon  ticket  made  him 
all  ready  for  the  final  step.  Once  that  declaration  of 
the  love  he  did  not  feel  —  as  Essie  understood  love  — 
had  been  made,  his  scrupulous  withholding  from  it  lay 


THE  DREAM  357 

strewn  about  his  feet  as  matter  of  no  more  regard  than 
the  torn  wrappings  of  a  casket  from  which  there  has 
been  taken  a  very  precious  prize.  That  declaration 
sealed  her  to  him;  and  through  those  intervening  days 
while  the  letter  was  awaited,  constantly  he  repeated 
it,  constantly  embellished  it.  He  mocked,  he  almost 
upbraided  himself  for  his  old  scruples  at  it.  Why,  it 
was  her  due,  her  right,  he  told  himself.  She  should  be 
happy  with  him  —  that  was  his  resolve :  never  should 
regret,  never  suffer.  Why,  how  possibly  could  she  be 
happy,  how  avoid  pains  of  regret,  if  she  were  not  as- 
sured that  he  loved  her? 

So  he  gave  her  this  bond  —  that  was  her  due  —  of 
his  love;  so  with  each  day,  each  hour,  each  moment  of 
Whitecliffe  in  her  company  he  became  more  and  more 
assured  of  her.  Assured!  He  was  convinced.  There 
was  not  a  glance  from  her  eyes,  not  a  sound  from  her 
lips,  not  a  touch  of  her  hand  but  informed  him  that  she 
was  his  to  do  with  as  he  would,  come  any  test  that  he 
might  put  her  to.  Return  to  life!  Why,  this  freedom, 
this  happiness,  was  but  the  threshold  of  it.  Return  to 
life!  He  imaged  all  the  darkness  he  had  come  through 
and  damned  it  in  exultant  triumph  at  all  its  terrors 
trampled  under  foot:  night,  darker  than  deepest  sum- 
mer darkness  here,  he  had  known;  day,  of  which  these 
burning  cloudless  days  of  hoUday  were  sign  and  symbol, 
now  was  his,  and  brighter  still  awaited  him.  .  .  . 

WhitecHffe  Sands,  anxious  to  present  to  its  visitors 
every  attraction  and  convenience  that  may  place  it 
among  rising  seaside  resorts,  numbers  among  the  latter 
a  Tourist  Bureau  in  the  High  Street  where,  so  an  in- 
scription informs  you,  you  may  book  in  advance  to  any 
railway  station  in  the  British  Isles.     On  the  morning 


358  THE   CLEAN  HE/VRT 

of   the   arrival   of   the  registered   letter,   Mr.   Wriford     1 
stepped  in  here  and  took  for  to-morrow  two  first-class 
tickets  to  London:    a  fast  train  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  he  was  told.  1 

III 

The  morrow  brought  Mr.  Bickers  at  midday,  Mrs. 
Bickers  and  Mr.  Wriford  and  Essie  at  the  station  to 
meet  him,  Essie  in  his  arms  and  hugging  him  with  de- 
lighted cries  of  joy  before  he  is  well  out  of  the  train. 
It  is  a  thing  to  make  all  who  stand  about  on  the  plat- 
form desist  from  their  own  greetings  to  see  her  slim 
young  figure  in  its  pretty  white  dress  flash  forward  as 
the  train  comes  in,  and  to  smile  at  her  cry  of  "  There  he 
is!  Oh,  jus'  look  at  his  summer  waistcoat  he's  got!  " 
and  then  to  see  her  in  his  arms  with  "  Oh,  Dad!  Oh, 
if  you  don't  look  a  darling  in  that  waistcoat!  Where- 
ever  did  you  get  it,  though?  " 

Most  wonderfully  animated  she  is,  most  radiantly 
pretty.  Mr.  Bickers,  after  affectionate  greeting  of  his 
wife,  and  to  Mr.  Wriford  most  genial  "  Hullo,  Arthur! 
All  right?  That's  the  way!  Glad  to  see  you  again, 
Arthur,"  watches  her  adoringly  where  she  has  returned 
to  his  carriage  with  "  I'll  get  your  bag.  Dad!  "  and  says: 
"  Doesn't  she  look  a  picture,  our  Essie!  Doesn't  White- 
cliff  e  suit  our  Essie!  " 

Most  wonderfully  animated  she  is,  most  radiantly 
pretty  —  chattering;  walking  with  gay  little  skips  as 
she  holds  Dad's  hand  while  they  proceed  to  the  lodgings; 
carrying  them  all  with  her  a  dozen  times  on  her  irre- 
sistible appeal  of:  "  Oh,  isn't  that  funny,  though!  Let's 
have  a  laugh,"  before  the  lodgings  are  reached. 


THE  DREAM  359 

It  is  much  more  than  Whitecliffe's  breezes  that  make 
her  thus,  much  more  than  joy  at  Dad's  arrival:  it  is 
that  this  is  To-day,  the  promised  day  —  the  secret 
come  to  bursting-point,  and  to  burst  out  in  all  its  won- 
der at  any  moment  that  Mr.  Wriford  may  choose  to 
relieve  the  almost  unbearable  excitement  and  mystery 
and  tell  her  it  may  be  told.  "  Feels  to  me  like  all  the 
birthdays  I  ever  had  all  rolled  into  one,"  Essie  had  de- 
clared to  Mr.  Wriford  early  that  morning.  "  If  you'd 
seen  me  jump  out  of  bed  when  I  woke  up!  Oh,  jus' 
think  when  we  tell  them!  Will  it  be  when  Dad  arrives 
at  the  station?  Well,  at  lunch,  then?  "  And  when  Mr. 
Wriford  smiles  and  shakes  his  head  at  each  of  these, 
"  Well,  but  they  think  you're  going  to-day!  Oh,  if  ever 
I  knew  any  one  love  a  mystery  like  you  do!  " 

"  I'll  teU  you  when,"  says  Mr.  Wriford.  "  I'll  tell 
you  all  of  a  sudden."  For  him  also  it  is  the  day  —  the 
promised  day  —  awaited  thus  with  deUberate  purpose, 
and  he  a  little  nervous,  a  little  restless,  something  ill 
at  ease  now  that  its  hour  swiftly  comes. 

"  You're  never  going  to  keep  it  till  the  very  last  min- 
ute just  before  they  think  you're  going?  My  goodness, 
I  couldn't  bear  it.  I'll  simply  scream.  I  know  I 
shaU." 

"  Look  here,  Essie,  I'll  tell  you.  I'm  going  by  the 
five  o'clock  train  to  London  —  " 

Essie  corrects  him.  "  You  mean  that's  what  you'll 
say  you  are.  Oh,  how  ever  I  won't  scream  I  can't 
think!  " 

"  Well,  just  before  that  we'll  say  we're  going  for  a 
last  walk  together  —  for  me  to  say  good-bye  to  every- 
thing; and  then  we'll  arrange  how  to  —  tell  them." 

She  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed  with  glee.    "  If 


360  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

you're  not  a  caution,  Arthur!     Oh,  how  ever  I  won't 
scream  before  five  o'clock!    Oh,  when  we  tell  them!  " 

At  five  o'clock  she  was  to  be  lying  still,  with  silent 
lips:  he  on  his  knees:  death  waiting. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   BUSINESS 


"  You're  never  going  to  keep  it  till  the  very  last 
minute?  "  Essie  had  said.  Mr.  Wriford's  plan  rested 
for  its  actual  execution  upon  this  very  fact  of  keeping 
it  till  the  very  last  minute  —  from  her.  Essie  had 
thrilled  with  the  delicious  mystification  of  "  They  think 
you're  going  to-day."  It  was  his  carefully  deliberated 
project  suddenly  to  spring  upon  her  that  indeed  he  was 
going  to-day  —  and  then  to  ask  her:  "  I'm  going,  Essie 
—  by  this  train  — ■  I'm  not  going  back  to  say  good-bye  — 
I'm  going  now  —  for  ever.  Essie,  are  you  coming  with 
me?" 

Thus  was  she  suddenly  to  be  presented  with  it.  Thus 
was  she  to  decide  —  flatly,  immediately.  She  was  to 
know  what  sort  of  union  he  intended.  She  was  either 
to  fear  it  and  let  him  go  from  her  —  as  he  would  go  — 
at  once  and  for  ever;  or  of  her  love  for  him  he  was  to 
carry  her  with  him  —  immediately,  to  have  always  for 
his  own! 

Let  Essie  decide!  He  was  holding  to  that.  With 
Essie  let  the  decision  be!  AU  he  was  doing  was  to  pre- 
sent the  decision  to  her  sharp  and  clear  and  sudden: 
all  he  had  done  was  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her.  But 
there  resulted  to  him  this:   that  between  the  sharpness 

361 


362  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

of  the  decision  she  was  to  make  and  the  love  he  had 
pressed  upon  her  in  these  intervening  Whitecliffe  days, 
between  the  effects  of  these  on  such  as  Essie  was,  he 
was  certain  of  her,  convinced  of  her:  so  utterly  assured 
of  her  that  as,  after  lunch,  they  left  the  house  for  that 
last  walk  in  which  he  was  "  to  say  good-bye  to  every- 
thing," he  told  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bickers:  "  Don't  be  anx- 
ious if  we're  not  back  by  half-past  four.  There's  an- 
other train  at  seven.  I  can  just  as  w^ell  go  by  that  if 
we  find  we  want  to  stop  out  a  bit;  "  so  certain  of  her 
that,  as  they  left  the  house,  "  Bring  a  warm  wrap  of 
some  kind,"  he  said  to  Essie.  "  Bring  that  long  cloak 
of  yours." 

"  Why,  it's  as  hot  as  anything!  "  Essie  protested. 
But  the  agonies  of  "  nearly  screaming  "  in  which  she 
had  sat  through  lunch  while  Mother  and  Dad  said  how 
sorry  they  were  Arthur  was  going,  and  that  if  the  job 
of  work  he  was  after  fell  through  he  was  to  be  sure  and 
let  them  know  at  once  —  the  agonies  of  enduring  this 
without  screaming,  made  it,  as  she  told  him  when  they 
were  started,  impossible  "  to  stand  there  arguing  on  the 
steps  with  them  watching  us,  so  I've  got  to  lug  this 
along,  and  don't  I  look  half  a  silly  carrying  it  either, 
all  along  the  parade  too!  " 

"  I'll  carry  it,"  said  Mr.  Wriford  and  took  the  cloak; 
"  and  we  won't  keep  along  the  parade.  We'll  go  that 
walk  of  ours  in  towards  Yexley  Green  and  round  by 
that  white  house  with  the  jolly  garden  and  come  out  on 
to  the  cliff.    That'll  give  us  plenty  of  time  to  get  back." 

Essie  laughed  and  skipped.  "  Plenty  of  time!  How 
you  can  keep  it  up  like  that  I  can't  think.  My  good- 
ness, if  you  oughtn't  to  be  on  the  stage!  Hope  you  like 
carrying  that  cloak!  " 


THE  BUSINESS  363 

"  Well,  there'll  be  a  shower  or  two,  I  shouldn't  be 
surprised,"  said  Mr.  Wriford.  "  Anyway,  it'll  do  to 
sit  down  on  when  we  get  over  to  the  cliff  and  sit  down  — 
to  arrange." 


II 

This  white  house  with  the  jolly  garden  that  was  to 
be  the  turning-point  of  their  walk  had  come  to  be  quite 
a  place  of  pilgrimage  since  its  chance  discovery  on  the 
first  morning  of  the  holiday.  "  Whitehouse  "  was  its 
name.  It  was  tenantless.  An  auctioneer's  placard 
announced  that  it  was  for  sale.  They  had  walked  far 
along  the  chffs  from  WhitecHffe  Sands  on  that  first 
morning,  had  taken  a  winding  lane  that  led  to  Yexley 
Green,  and  in  the  lane  suddenly  had  come  upon  White- 
house,  with  which  immediately  Essie,  and  Mr.  Wriford 
scarcely  less,  had  fallen  most  encaptivatingly  in  love. 
A  high  wall  surrounded  it.  They  had  explored  its  gar- 
den: kitchen  garden  with  fruit  trees;  and  a  bit  of  lawn 
with  a  shady  old  elm;  and  enticing  odd  little  bits  of 
garden  tucked  here  and  there  behind  shrubberies  and 
in  corners;  and  a  httle  stable  —  at  the  stable  Mr.  Wri- 
ford had  said:  "That's  where  you'd  keep  a  fat  little 
pony,  Essie,  and  have  one  of  those  jolly  little  governess 
cars  and  drive  into  Whitecliff  e  every  day  to  do  the  shop- 
ping." And  "  Oh,  if  ever!  "  Essie  had  cried  delightedly; 
and  immediately  and  thenceforward  the  thing  had  been 
to  come  here  every  day  and  imagine  Whitehouse  was 
theirs  and  plan  the  garden  —  sadly  neglected  —  as 
they  would  have  it  if  it  were.  One  storey  high,  the 
house,  and  white,  and  "  sort  of  bulging,  the  darling," 
as  Essie  had  said,  with  the  effect  that  the  three  ground- 


364  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

floor  rooms  and  even  the  kitchen  at  the  back  were  spa- 
ciously circular  in  shape.  High  French  windows  — 
"  My  goodness,  though,  if  there  aren't  more  windows 
than  walls  almost!  "  Encircled  all  about  by  a  wide, 
paved  verandah. 

"  It's  the  very  house  for  an  author,"  Mr.  Wriford 
had  declared.  "  Shut  away  from  everything  by  that 
jolly  old  wall,  Essie;  and  this  room  —  come  and  look 
at  this  room,  Essie  —  this  would  be  mine  where  I'd 
write.  It  must  get  the  sun  pretty  well  all  day,  and  it's 
sort  of  away  from  the  others  —  quite  quiet.  Couldn't 
I  write  in  there!  " 

Essie  with  her  nose  flat  against  the  window:  "  Oh, 
wouldn't  it  be  glorious!  Can't  I  just  see  you  sitting 
in  there  writing  a  book!  Perhaps  I'd  be  out  on  the  ve- 
randah here  with  a  Httle  dog  that  I'd  have  and  just 
have  a  peep  at  you  sometimes!  " 

To-day  as  they  came  by  Whitehouse  and  turned 
towards  the  cliffs  there  was  a  sudden  development  of 
these  imaginative  ecstasies.  The  showers  that  Mr. 
Wriford  had  foreboded,  heralded  by  watery  clouds 
trailing  up  from  the  west,  approached  in  quickening 
drops  of  heavy  rain  as  they  came  through  Yexley  Green. 
They  were  at  Whitehouse  when  sudden  midsummer 
downpour  broke  and  descended. 

"  My  goodness!  "  cried  Essie. 

"  We'll  shelter  in  the  porch  —  in  the  verandah," 
said  Mr.  Wriford  and  opened  the  gate.    "  Run,  Essie!  " 

In  the  porch,  Essie  breathless  and  laughing  from 
their  helter-skelter  rush,  and  shaking  the  raindrops 
from  her  skirts,  Mr.  Wriford  read  again  a  duplicate  of 
the  auctioneer's  notice  posted  at  the  gate.  He  came 
to  the  last  words  and  read  them  aloud  with  exclamation. 


THE  BUSINESS  365 

"  '  Open  to  view! '  Essie,  if  we  haven't  been  donkeys 
all  this  time!  I  believe  it's —  "  He  turned  the  handle 
of  the  door.    "  It  is.    It's  open!  " 

"  Oo-oo!  "  cried  Essie,  clasping  her  hands  in  delight, 
flashing  her  sparkling  eyes  all  about  the  wide  hall  — 
its  white  panelling,  its  inglenook  fireplace,  its  room- 
doors  standing  ajar  with  captivating  peeps  of  interiors 
even  more  entrancing  than  when  seen  from  outside, 
its  low,  spacious  stairway  bending  up  to  the  first 
floor  — "Oh,  if  ever!  Oh,  Arthur,  if  it  isn't  a  dar- 
ling! " 

At  the  chffs  —  and  they  had  been  within  five  minutes 
of  them  when  the  rain  came  —  he  had  planned  they 
should  sit  down  and  he  would  tell  her:  "I'm  going  by 
the  five  o'clock  train.  Here's  my  ticket.  Essie,  are 
you  coming  with  me?  Look,  here's  yours."  The  diver- 
sion of  being  within  enchanting  Whitehouse,  his  laugh- 
ter at  Essie's  ecstasies  as  from  room  to  room  they  went, 
momentarily  forgot  him  his  purpose  —  and  yet,  and 
partly  of  envisaging  within  these  perfect  surroundings 
the  very  joy,  settled  with  Essie  in  dwelling-place  so 
conducive  to  work  and  happiness  as  this,  that  soon 
should  be  his,  brought  him  (and  her)  directly  to  it. 

With  light  and  trifling  steps  they  suddenly  were 
plunged  amidst  it.  The  exploration,  twice  repeated, 
was  done.  Essie  was  in  ecstasies  anew  over  the  sitting- 
room,  of  which  Mr.  Wriford  told  her  again:  "  Yes,  this 
would  be  yours.  That's  the  dining-room  behind,  you 
see,  with  a  door  to  the  kitchen  where  your  servants 
would  be." 

"  Not  really  two  servants?  "  said  Essie. 

"Oh,  rather  —  three  perhaps;  and  then  the  gardener 
chap  who'd  look  after  your  pony-trap." 


366  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  said  Essie,  sparkling.  "Do 
Just  go  on,  dear!  " 

"  Yes,  well,  this  would  be  yours.  We  wouldn't  call 
it  the  drawing-room  or  any  rot  like  that.  Just  your 
room  with  jolly  furniture  and  a  little  bureau  where 
you'd  keep  your  accounts.  We'd  have  tea  in  here  when 
we  didn't  have  it  outside.  The  servants  would  call  it 
the  sitting-room.  We'd  call  it  jolly  little  Essie's  room. 
I'd  get  fed  up  with  working  sometimes,  you  know,  and 
come  and  sprawl  about  in  here.  You'd  be  sewing  or 
something,  I  expect." 

Essie  had  no  expression  for  all  this  but  an  enormous 
sigh  of  ecstasy.  Then  she  said:  "  Now  we'll  go  back 
to  yours,"  and  hand  in  hand  they  came  to  it  —  and  to 
their  reckoning. 


Ill 


"  Simply  built  for  a  chap  to  write  in,"  Mr.  Wriford 
said.  "  Just  look  how  it  gets  the  sun.  It's  stopped 
raining.  I'd  come  here  directly  after  breakfast.  That's 
the  time  I  can  write.  There's  where  I'd  have  my  table. 
You'd  see  I  was  kept  quiet." 

"  Oh,  wouldn't  I  just,"  said  Essie.  "  You  see,  there's 
a  passage  comes  right  down  to  this  door,  and  my  good- 
ness if  I  saw  any  of  the  servants  come  past  that  corner 
there,  or  even  go  into  the  room  overhead!  My  goodness, 
they'd  know  it  if  they  did!  " 

He  put  his  arm.  about  her  shoulders  and  laughed  and 
pressed  her  to  him;  and  Essie  said:  "  Oh,  just  fancy  if 
it  really  could  be  ours!  " 

He  kept  her  there.    She  in  his  arm,  they  in  surround- 


THE  BUSINESS  367 

ings  such  as  these:  he  working,  she  ministering  to  him  — 
ah,  return  to  Ufe!    return  to  life! 

"  Well,  we'll  have  a  place  as  like  it  as  we  can  find," 
he  said. 

She  shook  her  head.  With  just  a  little  sigh,  "We 
never  could,"  she  said.  "  We'll  be  happier  than  any- 
thing wherever  we  are;  but  one  thing,  there  couldn't 
be  another  darling  place  like  this,  and  another,  it  would 
cost  a  fair  fortune.  Why,  it's  not  even  to  let.  It's  only 
for  sale." 

He  told  her  easily:  "That's  all  right.  That's  just 
what  we're  going  to  do  —  buy  a  little  place  somewhere. 
I  bet  a  thousand  would  buy  this  Whitehouse,  buried 
away  down  here." 

Essie  made  a  tremendous  mouthful  of  the  word: 
"  Well,  a  thousand!  " 

He  laughed  and  squeezed  her  in  reproof  again.  "  Or 
two,"  he  said.  "  Won't  you  ever  understand  what  they 
pay  for  what  you  call  the  silly  books?  " 

She  had  protested  before,  when  in  these  Whitecliffe 
days  he  had  assured  her  of  his  identity  with  Philip 
Wriford,  that  she  never  would  have  said  silly  in  the 
library  that  evening  if  she  had  known  the  book  was  his 
"  really."  She  protested  now  again  with  a  wriggle  and 
a  laugh;  but  quickly  upon  her  protest  looked  up  at  him 
with:  "  Oh,  you  can't  ever  mean  that  you  really  could 
buy  this?    You  simply  can't?  " 

He  nodded,  smiling. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  why  not  then?  Why  not?  Oh, 
Arthur,  just  think  if  you  would!    Oh,  jus'  think!  " 

The  smile  went  from  his  lips  and  from  his  eyes.  White- 
house,  so  near  to  Mother  and  Dad,  was  impossible. 
Flight  must  take  them,  and  keep  them,  very  far  from 


368  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

here.  Before  he  could  speak  it  was  this  very  fact  of 
proximity  to  home  that  she  adduced  in  further  persua- 
sion. 

"  And  think,"  she  cried,  "  how  near  we'd  be  to  Mother 
and  Dad!  Jus'  an  hour  in  the  train.  I  could  see  them 
every  week.  I  expect  you've  thought  they'd  Uve  with 
us,  you  being  so  rich.  But  they  never  would,  you  know. 
Dad  would  never  leave  his  shop,  one  thing;  and  another, 
Mother's  often  said  when  we've  talked  about  me  getting 
married  one  day,  that  a  girl  ought  to  have  a  home  of 
her  own  and  not  have  her  mother  tied  round  her  neck. 
Why,  this  would  be  perfect,  this  darling  Whitehouse, 
and  so  close  to  them!    Oh,  if  you  really  can,  Arthur!^" 

Here  was  the  teUing  of  it. 

"  I  can't,"  he  said.    "  We  can't  live  here,  Essie." 

She  detected  something  amiss  in  his  tone.  There 
went  out  of  her  face  the  fond  and  smiling  entreaty  ex- 
pressive of  her  plea.    She  said:    "  Arthur,  why?  " 

To  one  of  the  windows  there  was  a  broad  window- 
seat,  and  he  took  her  to  it.  "  Let's  sit  down  here, 
Essie." 

She  said:  "  Oh,  whatever  is  it,  dear?  " 

He  took  her  hand.  "  It's  this.  What  I  told  your 
father  and  mother  about  going  by  the  five  o'clock  train 
is  true.  I  am  going.  It's  nearly  four  now.  It's  time 
to  be  starting  back.  I  am  going.  Look,  here's  my 
ticket." 

Wonderingly  she  looked  at  it,  and  at  him.  "  Oh, 
you  can't  be?  " 

"  I  am.  There's  the  ticket.  Essie,  look.  Here's 
yours." 

She  almost  laughed.  She  looked  at  his  face  and  the 
impulse  was  checked.     But  she  said  half-laughingly, 


THE  BUSINESS  369 

her  brows  prettily  puckered:  "Oh,  whatever?  Is  it 
a  game,  dear,  you're  having?  " 

"  No,  it's  no  game.  It's  very  serious.  I'm  going  — • 
for  good.    Not  coming  back  —  ever." 

She  made  a  little  distressful  motion  with  her  hands. 
"  Oh,  Arthur,  don't  go  on  so,  dear.  Whatever  can  you 
mean?  " 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  say,  I'm  going  —  at  five 
o'clock."  He  stopped  and  looked  intently  into  her 
wondering,  her  something  shadowed,  eyes.  He  said: 
"  Essie,  are  you  coming  with  me?  " 

This  time  she  laughed.  It  obviously  was  a  game! 
A  little  ring  of  her  clear  and  merry  laughter,  and  her 
eyes  that  always  sparkled,  that  had  been  shadowed, 
sparkling  anew.  "  Oh,  if  you  oughtn't  to  be  an  actor 
on  the  stage!  If  you  didn't  half  frighten  me,  though!  " 
and  she  laughed  again.  "  Why,  how  could  I  come? 
Why,  we're  not  married  yet!  " 

Now! 

He  put  an  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  to  him. 
"  Don't  let  me  frighten  you,  Essie.  Trust  me.  Trust 
me.  Come  with  me,  Essie.  I'll  take  care  of  you.  I'll 
love  you  always.  You'll  never  regret  it  —  not  a  mo- 
ment. You  know  what  I  can  do  for  you  —  everything 
you  want.  You  know  how  happy  we'll  be  —  happy, 
happy." 

He  had  imagined  —  he  had  prepared  for  —  every- 
thing that  she  might  say:  fears,  tears,  doubts,  protests 
—  he  had  rehearsed  his  part,  his  fond  endearments, 
his  d^ar  cajoleries,  against  them  all.  He  was  utterly 
unprepared  for  her  answer,  for  the  gentle  puzzlement 
in  her  eyes  that  went  with  it,  for  the  Sunday-school 
awe  in  her  voice  with  which  she  spoke  it. 


370  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  What,  live  in  sin?  "  said  Essie. 

He  was  prepared  for,  he  had  rehearsed,  every  way 
this  telHng  of  her  might  go.  Across  any  difficulties  of 
it  he  had  stepped  to  the  utter  conviction  of  her  that, 
howsoever  it  went,  would  radiantly  end  it,  he  knew. 
He  was  utterly  unprepared  for  this  her  first  contribu- 
tion to  it,  for  each  and  all  with  which  she  followed  it, 
for  the  sudden  fear,  and  then  the  quickly  mounting 
fear,  and  then  the  knowledge,  that  she  was  lost  to  him  — 
that  the  game  was  up,  the  thing  done,  the  plans  shat- 
tered, the  future  irrevocably  destroyed:  he  was  most 
unprepared  of  all,  as  the  knowledge  came  and  grew  and 
burned  within  him,  for  the  fury  that  began  to  fill  him 
at  his  loss,  the  fury  and  the  hate  that  finally  he  broke 
upon  her.  And  God,  God,  how  vilely  quickly  the  thing 
was  projected,  was  fought,  was  done!  In  one  minute, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  they  were  lovingly  trifling  their 
plans  of  Whitehouse;  in  the  next,  those  very  plans  had 
swept  him  to  the  telling;  in  the  next,  return  to  life  was 
crushed  like  ashes  in  his  mouth,  and  his  fury  and  hate 
were  out  and  raging;  in  the  next,  they  were  back  return- 
ing on  the  cliffs,  a  blustering  wind  got  up,  rain  again 
streaming. 

Look  how  it  went.    Consider  the  quickness  of  it. 

"  What,  live  in  sin?  " 

He  caught  her  to  him.  "  Live  together,  live  together, 
Essie  —  always.    Don't  talk  about  sin." 

"  How  could  I?    Oh,  how  ever  could  I?  " 

"  Together,  together,  Essie!  Think  of  us  together 
in  a  little  house  of  our  own  just  like  this.  Think  of  you 
looking  after  me,  and  of  me  looking  after  my  sweet, 
my  dear,  my  darling!  " 

"  How  could  I,  dear?    How  could  I?  " 


THE  BUSINESS  371 

"  Trust  me  —  trust  me!  Ah,  those  tears  in  my  dar- 
ling's darling  eyes!  Look  how  I  kiss  them  away  and 
hold  her  in  my  arms  and  always  hold  her." 

"  I  couldn't,  dear.    I  couldn't." 

"  You  know  I'm  different.  You  know  how  different 
I  am  from  other  men.  That's  why  I  ask  you,  why  I 
take  you,  without  marrying  you.  Does  it  frighten  you 
at  first?  Only  at  first.  You  know  I'm  different.  You 
know  you  trust  me." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  love  me!  You  don't  love  me,  after 
all!  " 

Chill  at  his  heart. 

"  I  can't  live  without  you,  Essie." 

"  Oh,  you  couldn't  ask  me  to  live  in  sin,  not  if  you 
loved  me." 

Swift  fear  that  he  has  lost  her. 

"  It  is  because  I  love  you.    Because  I  love  you." 

"  Oh,  didn't  I  love  to  think  you  loved  me,  Arthur! 
You  don't.    You  don't." 

Losing  her!  The  knowledge  loses  him  the  ardour  of 
his  words,  halts  him  and  stumbles  him  among  them. 
"  You're  silly,  you're  silly  to  talk  like  that!  " 

"  Oh,  didn't  I  think  you  loved  me  truly!  " 

Lost  her!  He  knows  it.  He  feels  it.  There  is  some- 
thing in  her  simple,  plaintive  exclamations,  in  her  "  I 
couldn't,  couldn't,  dear,"  in  her  abandonment  to  belief 
that  he  cannot  love  her  • —  there  is  some  damned,  numb- 
ing essence  in  it  that  emanates  as  it  were  from  her  spirit 
and  thus  informs  him;  and  thus  informing  him,  numbs 
and  dumbs  his  own.  Lost  her!  And  cannot  combat 
it.  Lost  her!  And  has  no  words,  no  help.  Fury  begin- 
ning in  him.  Fury  at  his  impotence  mounting  within 
him.    Return  to  life!    By  God,  by  God,  to  lose  it! 


372  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  Essie,  will  you  let  me  go,  then?  Now?  For  ever? 
You  can't.  All  our  love?  All  our  happiness  we're  going 
to  have?  " 

"  Oh,  didn't  I  think  you  loved  me  truly!  " 

Fury  within  him.  That  maddening  iteration  of  her 
maddening  cry!  He  can  scarcely  retain  his  fury.  He 
chokes  it  back.  He  is  hoarse  as  he  grinds  out  words. 
"  Think  of  us  in  a  Uttle  house  like  we've  planned." 

"  I  couldn't,  dear,  I  couldn't!  " 

"  Think  how  we'll  have  everything  we  want!  " 

"  Oh,  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  tempting  me!  " 

Fury  in  a  storm  breaks  out  of  him.  "  Oh!  "  he  cries 
and  makes  a  savage  action  with  his  arms  that  thrusts 
her  from  him.  "  Oh,  for  God  Almighty's  sake,  don't 
drag  the  Bible  into  it!  " 

She  says:    "Arthur!  " 

He  gets  violently  to  his  feet,  his  hands  clenched,  and 
makes  again  that  savage,  breaking  action  of  his  arms, 
and  cries  at  her:  "  Temptation  and  sin  and  rubbish, 
rubbish,  like  that!  Let  it  alone!  If  you  don't  love  me, 
say  so!  If  you're  going  to  let  me  go,  say  so!  Don't 
drag  the  Bible  into  it!  If  you  don't  love  me,  say  so,  say 
so,  say  so!  " 

"  Arthur,  you  know  I  love  you.  You  don't  love  me, 
dear!  " 

A  last  effort.  A  last  control  of  his  fury.  He  turns  to 
her.    "  Essie,  I  can't  live  without  you.    Essie!    Essie!  " 

"  Oh,  you  couldn't  love  me  to  ask  me  to  live  in  sin!  " 

That  ends  it.  That  expression  —  its  beastly  and 
vidgar  piety,  its  common,  vulgar  phraseology  —  sweeps 
across  his  fury  as  in  a  rasping  shudder  of  abhorrence. 
He  breaks  his  fury  out  upon  it.  He  bursts  out:  "  By 
God,   you're   common,   ccmmon!     Do   you   think   I'd 


THE  BUSINESS  373 

marry  you  —  you?  What  do  you  think  you  are?  Who 
do  you  think  I  am?  Marry  you!  Marry  youl  Let's 
get  out  of  this!  Let's  go  home,  and  you  can  tell  your 
father  and  your  mother!  " 

Return  to  life!  Gone,  gone!  Lost,  lost!  He  was 
shaking  with  hate  and  shaking  \vith  utter  fury.  He 
walked  to  the  door  and  staggered  as  he  walked  and  must 
stop  and  correct  his  direction  as  though  he  were  drunken. 
At  the  door  he  turned  to  her  and  saw  that  she  remained 
seated,  leaning  back  against  the  window,  her  hands 
clasped.  He  cried:  "  Are  you  coming?  Are  you  com- 
ing? " 

She  got  up  and  came  to  him  and  went  through  the 
doorway  before  him  and  through  the  outer  door.  He 
slammed  it  behind  him,  and  they  passed  out  from  White- 
house  and  up  the  lane,  and  out  upon  the  cliffs  and  turned 
along  them  homeward.  Raining.  He  carried  her  cloak 
but  did  not  offer  it  her.  A  wind  blew  gustily  from  off 
the  land  that  frequently  buffetted  him,  and  her,  and  at 
whose  buffettings  and  at  the  slippery  foothold  of  the 
rain-swept  grass  he  angrily  exclaimed. 

IV 

She  walked  to  seaward  of  him  close  along  the  cliff's 
edge.  Here  the  cliff  fell  sharply  a  few  feet,  then  over- 
hung an  outward  lap  of  gorse  and  bracken,  sheer  then 
to  the  sands.  Once  as  they  pressed  and  slipped  their 
way  along,  he  caught  her  eyes.  She  was  crying.  He 
sneered:   "  You  can  tell  your  father  and  mother!  " 

She  caught  her  breath  to  answer  him :  "  As  if  —  I 
should!" 

"  What  are  you  crjdng  about,  then?  " 


374  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

"  Didn't  I  think  you  loved  me  —  truly!  " 
They  were  approaching  the  little  coastguard  station 
of  Yexley  Gap.  Damn  this  rain.  Damn  this  slippery 
grass.  Damn  this  infernal  wind.  A  fiercer  gust  came 
blustering  seaward.  He  caught  with  both  hands  at  his 
hat  —  nearly  gone.  Essie's  cloak  upon  his  arm  blew 
across  his  eyes  —  bHnded  him,  and  he  had  to  stop. 

She  didn't  scream.  It  was  not  a  cry.  She  just,  in 
perplexity,  in  puzzlement,  in  trouble  as  it  were,  said 
"  Arthur!  " 

She  was  balancing.  She  was  struck  by  the  wind  and 
balancing  —  balancing  with  her  body  and  with  her  arms, 
and  looking  at  him  as  if  she  did  not  quite  know  what 
was  happening  to  her;  and  in  the  like  perplexity  said 
to  him  "Arthur!  "  —  balancing,  over-balancing. 

There  were  not  ten  feet  between  them.  He  rushed, 
and  slipped  as  he  rushed.  It  was  like  running  with 
those  leaden  feet  of  nightmare.  It  seemed  to  him  an 
immense  time  before  he  reached  her.  A  horrible,  blun- 
dering, unspeakable  business,  then.  The  cloak,  the 
accursed  cloak,  got  between  them  —  between  them.  A 
jumbling,  ghastly,  blundering  business,  their  hands 
fumbling  on  either  side  of  it.  Was  this  going  on  for 
ever  and  ever?  The  accursed  cloak  fumbled  itself  away. 
Ah,  God,  now  it  was  their  naked  hands  that  were 
fumbling  —  all  wet  and  slippery  with  rain,  seeming  to 
be  all  fists  and  no  fingers  and  only  knocking  against 
one  another  instead  of  catching  hold.  And  not  a  word 
said,  and  only  very  quick  breathing,  and  jumbling  and 
fumbling  and  jumbling.  Look  here,  this  fumbling,  she's 
falling,  toppling;  is  this  going  on  for  ever  and  ever  and 
ever? 


THE  BUSINESS  375 

It  was  her  hands  that  in  the  last  wild,  hideous  fum- 
bling clutched  his.  She  toppled  right  back.  He  fell. 
He  was  face  downwards  upon  the  slippery  grass,  to  his 
waist  almost  over  the  cliff,  and  slipping,  shpping,  and 
she  had  his  hands  —  the  backs  of  his  hands  over  the 
knuckles  so  that  his  fingers  were  imprisoned  and  useless, 
and  there  she  hung  and  dragged  him,  and  he  was  slip- 
ping. 

He  said:  "  O  God,  Essie!  O  God!  Can't  you  get 
your  hands  higher  up,  so  I  can  hold  you,  instead  of  you 
holding  me?  " 

She  said:  "  I  shall  fall  if  I  do." 

He  said:  "My  darling!  My  darling!  Hold  on,  then, 
Essie.    Dig  your  nails  in." 

"  Am  I  hurting  you?  " 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  Essie,  hold,  hold!  " 

Next  she  said:  "  Are  you  sHpping?  " 

He  said:  "  Some  one  will  come.  Some  one  will  come. 
I  heard  a  shout.    Hold!    Hold!  " 

She  persisted:   "  Are  you  slipping?  " 

He  said:   "Yes.    I'm  slipping.    Hold!    Hold!" 

There  isn't  any  need  to  describe  anything  —  of  his 
gradual  slipping  by  her  drag  upon  him,  of  his  useless 
hands  enviced  in  hers,  of  her  very  terrible  clutch  upon 
them. 

She  presently  said:  "  Tell  me  that  what  you  said  on 
the  seat  that  night,  dear." 

He  knew.  He  cried  most  passionately:  "  I  love  you, 
Essie." 

"  Truly?  " 

From  the  uttermost  depths  of  his  heart:  "  Truly! 
Truly!  " 

"  More  than  any  one?  " 


376  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

From  his  soul,  from  all  his  deepest  depths,  from  all 
he  ever  had  suffered,  from  all  he  ever  had  been,  "  Essie," 
he  cried,  "  before  God  I  love  you  more  than  all  the 
world!" 

She  said:  "  You  can't  raise  me  to  kiss  me,  can  you, 
dear?  " 

He  said:   "  I  can't,  Essie." 

"  Are  you  slipping?  " 

He  did  not  answer  her.  He  was  slipped  almost  be- 
yond recovery. 

She  then  said:  "Say  that  again  —  'before  God.' 
I  like  that,  dear." 

"  Essie,  Essie,  before  God  I  love  you  above  all  the 
world!  " 

She  gave  a  little  sigh.  She  said:  "  Well,  both  of  us  — 
what's  the  sense  to  it,  dear?  "  and  she  opened  her  fin- 
gers, and  he  saw  her  whizz,  strike  the  face  of  the  cliff 
where  it  jutted  out,  and  pitch,  and  crash  among  the 
gorse  and  bracken,  and  roll  over  and  over  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  outward  lap  above  the  sands,  and  caught 
there  and  lying  there  .  .  .  her  jolly  little  dress  for 
Whitecliffe  lying  there. 

A  hand  grabbed  him,  or  he,  beyond  recovery  of  his 
balance,  had  followed  her.  A  coastguard  grabbed  him 
and  dragged  him  back.  He  said  in  a  thick,  odd  voice: 
"  What  the  devil's  the  use  of  that  now?  You  fool,  what 
the  devil's  the  use  of  that?  " 

He  lay  there,  the  rain  stopped,  in  the  sunshine.  He 
Just  lay  there  —  a  minute,  an  hour,  a  year,  a  lifetime, 
eternity?  They  went  down  —  a  circuitous  path  to 
where  she  lay.  They  brought  her  up.  They  carried 
her,  on  a  shutter,  past  him.    He  gave  some  wordless 


THE  BUSINESS  377 

sound  from  his  lips  and  scrambled  on  his  knees  towards 
their  burden  and  threw  his  arms  about  it  and  clung 
there,  with  wordless  sounds. 

One  man  said:  "  She's  alive,  sir." 

Another  man  said:  "  We'd  best  try  to  get  her  home 
before  —  " 

A  third  man  said:  "  Can  you  walk  to  show  us  the 
way?  " 

He  got  up  and  went  stumbling  along. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   SEEING 

They  carry  her  to  her  room.  There  is  only  one  doctor 
in  Whitecliffe.  He  is  found  and  fetched;  and  leaving 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bickers  by  the  bedside,  comes  down  to 
the  sitting-room  where  is  a  man  stunned  to  apparent 
speechlessness  by  grief,  whom  he  takes  to  be  the  pa- 
tient's brother.  The  doctor  says  he  will  stay  till  the 
end,  and  for  "  the  end  "  then  substitutes  "  for  the  night." 
There  is  nothing  he  can  do  immediately  and  by  himself. 
He  speaks  of  the  possibiHty  of  an  operation  in  the  morn- 
ing, but  seemingly  has  no  thought  of  telegraphing  to  a 
surgeon  he  names  who  could  perform  it.  She  will  pass 
away  without  recovery  of  consciousness,  he  fears. 
There  is  not  only  the  injury  to  her  head  but  of  her  spine. 
More  than  that  there  is  the  question  of  —  If  the  case 
had  been  taken  to  the  hospital  at  Market  Redding.  .  .  . 
The  man  whom  he  takes  to  be  her  brother  drags  with 
blundering  fingers  from  his  pocket  a  packet  of  bank- 
notes and  thrusts  them  towards  him  with  a  curious 
action  —  an  action  suggestive  (were  not  the  idea  ridic- 
ulous) of  their  being  some  horrible  thing. 

Well,  are  they  not  the  price  of  her  that  was  to  buy 
her? 

Taking  the  packet,  the  doctor  flushes.  He  had  judged 
these  people  by  the  rooms  they  occupy  —  a  clumsy 
thing  to  do  at  the  seaside  where  frequently  people  must 

378 


THE  SEEING  379 

take  what  accommodation  they  can  find.  This  man's 
educated  bearing,  perceptible  despite  the  grief  that 
scarcely  enables  him  to  speak,  should  have  informed 
him  of  his  mistake.  Very  well,  he  will  telegraph.  He 
cannot  hold  out  much  hope.  But  convey  hope  to  those 
poor  old  folk  up-stairs.  Indeed,  of  course  one  knows 
of  cases.  ...  In  these  days  of  aeroplanes  one  hears 
of  cases  where  terrible  falls,  long  periods  of  unconscious- 
ness, have  been  survived.  Eh?  Still  —  and  though  he  is 
alone  in  the  sitting-room  with  this  the  poor  girl's  brother 
he  drops  his  voice  and  tells  him.  .  .  . 

She  lies  in  her  room,  Mother  and  Dad  with  her.  She 
lies  there  unconscious  and  only,  under  God,  to  wake 
to  die.  He  that  had  stumbled  before  her  bier,  directing 
those  who  bore  her,  stumbles  now  from  the  house.  "  Kill 
me!  Kill  me!"  Ah,  cry  that  pulses  as  a  wound  within 
him;  that  he  desires  to  cry  aloud,  and  would  cry  aloud, 
and  does  wordlessly  groan  with  his  breathing.  But 
there  is  agony  that  he  endures  that  of  speech  bereaves 
him,  of  power  of  movement  wherewith  to  carry  out 
what  now  alone  remains,  numbs  and  denies  him.  There 
is  a  seat  without  the  house  upon  the  parade.  He  drops 
upon  it,  and  there  endures  .  .  .  and  there  endures.  .  .  . 

Endures !  It  is  as  if  there  had  been  discovered  to  him 
within  him  some  vital  core,  some  spot,  some  nucleus 
of  life,  some  living  soul  and  centre  of  him,  capable  of 
receiving  the  very  quick  and  apotheosis  of  torture,  such 
as  all  his  normal  body  and  all  his  normal  mind  delivered 
over  to  rack  and  irons  could  not  have  felt.  There  is  a 
point  m  human  pain  where  pain,  numbing  the  centres 
of  the  mind,  mercifully  defeats  itself  and  can  no  more. 
There  is  discovered  to  him  within  him  a  core,  a  quick, 


38o  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

an  essence  of  him,  capable  of  agony  to  infinity,  down 
into  which,  as  a  blunted  knife,  drives  every  thought 
in  writhing  agony.  In  physical  agony  he  writhes  be- 
neath them,  twisting  his  legs,  driving  his  nails  within 
his  palms,  bleeding  with  his  teeth  his  lips. 

In  that  flash  while  she  fell,  and  falling  saved  him: 
"  She  has  given  her  life  for  mine!  "  In  that  hour,  that 
age,  that  all  eternity  of  time  while,  prone  and  powerless, 
rescued  upon  the  cliff  he  lay:  "  Twice,  twice,  I  look 
upon  a  body  Ufeless  to  let  mine  live!  "  In  that  stum- 
bling progression  before  her  bier:  '*  Kill  me!  Kill  me! 
0  vile,  O  worst,  0  foulest,  unnameable  thing,  betake 
thyself  to  hell,  if  any  hell  be  vile  enough  to  hold  thee!  " 

Revelation!  Revelation!  As  she  fell,  as  he  lay,  as 
he  stumbled,  as  here  he  writhes  in  agony  —  revelation 
—  and  all  his  Ufe  in  terrible  review  beneath  it.  "  Kill 
me!  Kill  me!  "  he  groans.  "  O  vile,  O  worst,  0  foulest, 
unnameable  thing,  betake  thyself  to  hell,  if  any  hell  be 
vile  enough  to  hold  thee!  " 

"  Not  so.  Not  yet,"  there  answers  him.  It  is  as 
though  there  speak  to  him  his  thoughts  with  voice  that 
peals  imperatively  through  all  his  being,  reverberating 
through  him  in  tremendous  majesty  of  doom,  as  through 
the  aisles  reverberates  and  makes  to  tremble  all  the  air 
an  organ's  swelling  thunder. 

"Not  so!  Not  yet!  Thou  hast  not  strength  to  move 
to  find  thy  hell.  Rise  if  thou  canst.  Stay,  for  thou 
must.    Revelation  is  here.    Behold  thy  life  beneath  it!  " 

He  crouches  there.  Enormously  it  thunders  all  about 
him.  "  Revelation!  O  blind,  O  purblind  miserable! 
Have  not  a  thousand  lights  been  thrust  before  thee  to 
proclaim  thee  this  that  only  now  thou  seest?  Thou 
seeker    after    happiness!      Thou    greatly- to-be-pitied! 


THE    SEEING  381 

Thou  sufferer!  Thou  victim  of  afSiction!  Thou  inno- 
cent! Thou  greatly  wronged!  Is  it  thus  thou  hast  seen 
thyself?  Ah,  whining  wretch  that  thou  hast  been!  Ah, 
blind,  ah,  purblind  fool,  that  could  not  see!  That  first 
must  have  a  life  to  show  thee!  That  first  must  send 
to  death  he  that  in  daily  sacrifices  of  thy  companion- 
ship had  shown  thee  happiness  was  sacrifice!  Blind, 
blind!  Thou  must  demand  death  of  him  to  try  to  rend 
thy  blindness,  and  still  wast  blind,  still  cried  to  heaven 
of  thy  misery,  still  wast  of  all  men  most  to  be  pitied, 
most  oppressed!  Ah,  whining  wretch!  To  her  for  more 
revelation  thou  must  come.  By  her,  daily,  hourly  rev- 
elation is  thrust  before  thee  —  she,  that  gay,  that  sweet, 
that  joyous  life,  whose  every  single,  smallest  thought 
was  thought  for  others,  and  still,  0  soul  enmired,  en- 
meshed in  blindness,  thou  couldst  not  see!  —  still  thou 
must  have  the  deeper  sacrifice!  One  life  doth  not  suf- 
fice thee.  Another  thou  must  have.  And  now  thou 
criest:  'Revelation!  Revelation!'  What  cost?  Look, 
look,  thou  vilest,  now  that  thine  eyes  are  clear,  now 
that  thy  soul  is  stirred  at  last  from  all  the  slime  of  self, 
self,  self,  where  thou  hast  kept  it  —  look  now,  and 
count  the  cost  of  this  thy  revelation.  Look  now !  Hold 
up  thy  shuddering  soul,  new  from  its  slime,  to  look  how 
all  thy  life  is  strewed  with  sacrifices  made  for  thee,  how 
at  each  step,  blind,  thou  hast  demanded  more;  how 
two  whose  every  slightest  breath  was  more  of  beauty 
than  all  thy  years  have  made,  how  two  were  given  thee; 
how  in  thy  blindness  thou  rebukedst  them  both  in  each 
devotion,  in  every  act  of  love,  of  care,  and  must  press 
on  to  have  their  lives,  their  broken  bodies  —  he  by  the 
sea,  she  by  the  cliff  —  for  this  thy  revelation." 
Day  comes  to  evening,  evening  reaches  into  night. 


382  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

"  Kill  me!  Kill  me!  "  he  moans.  "  O  vile,  O  worst, 
O  foulest  thing,  0  blind,  let  me  betake  myself  to  hell, 
if  any  hell  be  vile  enough  to  hold  me!  " 

There  answers  him  in  dreadful  summons,  in  final  roll 
and  crash  of  sound:  "  Look  back.  Look  back.  Thou 
hast  purchased  this  thy  revelation.  Thou  hast  recov- 
ered from  its  slime  thy  soul.  Two  lives  and  boundless 
love  thou  hast  demanded  for  it.  Thy  price  is  paid. 
Look  back,  look  back.  Hold  up  that  soul  of  thine  and 
see  the  way  that  thou  hast  come.  Then  seek  thy  hell, 
if  hell  will  have  thee.    Hold  up  thy  soul!  " 

The  sound  is  snatched  away.     Only  its  resonance 
remains,   and   sharp   and   piercing   streams   the   air  it 
leaves  to  silence.     In  that  intensity  with  new  eyes  he 
looks  back;  and  now  into  this  quick,  this  nucleus  of 
Hfe  within  him  that  is  made  capable  of  pain  transcend- 
ing human  pain,  receives  each  vision  that  his  new  eyes 
reveal.    In  agony  receives  them,  writhing  at  their  tor- 
ture.   Who  had  been  happy?    They  that  had  sacrificed ! 
Happy  till  when?    Till  he  came!    Happy  in  what?    In 
selflessness,  in  selflessness.  .  .  .  Who  had  been  happy? 
That  uncouth  vagabond  that  in  their  every  moment 
together  had  tended  him,  cared  for  him,  protected  him. 
O  bUnd,  that,  mired  in  self,  never  till  now  had  realised 
his  strong  devotion!     In  shame,  in  horror,  in  grief's 
abandonment,  he  cries  aloud  his  uncouth  name:   "  Pud- 
dlebox!    Puddlebox!    Forme!    O  God,  forme!"   Writh- 
ing, he  hears  his  jolly  voice:    "  O  ye  tired  strangers 
of  the  Lord:  bless  ye  the  Lord."    Hears  his  jolly  voice: 
''Down,  loony,  down!".  .  .  That  was  on  the  wagon, 
receiving  blows  that  he  might  escape!  .  .  .  Hears  his 
jolly  voice:   "  You  think  too  much  about  yourself,  boy, 
and  therefore  I  name  you  spooked.".  .  .  O  blind,  O 


THE   SEEING  383 

blind  that  all  his  life  had  thought  too  much  about  him- 
self, and  only  of  himself  —  thought  only  of  how  to  win 
his  own  happiness,  realised  never  till  now  that  happi- 
ness was  in  making  others  happy,  and  nowhere  else, 
and  nowhere  else!  .  .  ,  Hears  his  jolly  voice:  "  Where- 
fore whatsoever  comes  against  me,  boy  —  heat,  cold; 
storm,  shine;  hunger,  fullness;  pain,  joy  —  cause  for 
praise  I  find  in  them  all  and  therefore  sing:  '  O  ye 
world  of  the  Lord;  bless  ye  the  Lord.'  "  .  .  .  O  blind, 
blind,  that  many  weeks  lived  with  that  creed  and  never 
till  now  realised  its  meaning.  .  .  .  Hears  his  jolly  voice: 
"  I  like  you,  boy."  .  .  .  Hears  his  jolly  voice:  "  Why, 
what  to  the  devil  is  the  sense  of  it,  boy?  "  —  but  doing 
it,  following  it,  for  him!  .  .  .  O  blind,  0  blind!  .  .  . 
Hears  his  jolly  voice:  "  I'm  to  you  now,  boy!  I'm  to 
you,  boy.  Why,  that's  my  loony!  "...  Hears  his 
jolly  voice:  "  Wedge  in,  boy!  Wedge  in!  Swim!  Why, 
I'd  swim  that  rotten  far  with  my  hands  tied,  and  I  chal- 
lenge you  or  any  man  —  "  .  .  .  Sees  him  swing  off  his 
hands,  and  drop,  and  go,  and  drown,  and  die.  .  .  .  O 
blind,  blind,  bhnd! 

Deep  swings  the  night  about  him;  deep  sounds  the 
murmuring  sea.  "  Kill  me!  Kill  me!  "  he  groans. 
"  O  vile,  O  worst,  O  foulest  thing,  let  me  betake  myself 
to  hell,  if  any  hell  be  vile  enough  to  hold  me!  " 

There  answers  him:  "  Not  so.  Not  yet.  Lookback. 
Look  back.  Hold  up  thy  soul,  new  from  its  slime  of 
self,  self,  self,  and  look  along  the  way  that  thou  hast 
come.    Hold  up  thy  soul  and  look!  " 

He  is  searching,  he  is  searching  in  the  days  at  Pendra. 
He  is  wondering,  he  is  wondering.  Is  there  some  secret 
of  happiness  in  life  that  he  has  missed?  O  blind,  O 
purblind  in  the  face  of  God!    Day  and  night,  by  count- 


384  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

less  love,  by  endless  devotion,  the  secret  had  been 
thrust  before  him.  Blind!  Of  self  alone  he  had  thought. 
The  last,  the  uttermost  sacrifice  had  been  presented 
him.  Blind!  Enmired,  enmeshed  in  self,  it  had  shown 
him  nothing,  left  him  still  whimpering,  still  wondering, 
still  seeking,  still  pitying  his  fate.  Who  had  been  happy? 
Essie!  Essie!  Happy  till  when?  Till  he  came!  Happy 
in  what?  In  selflessness!  Blind!  O  blindness  black 
beyond  belief,  now  that  with  new  eyes  he  sees  it.  Pud- 
dlebox  had  shown  him.  Essie  not  alone  had  shown 
him  but  had  told  him.  On  that  day  of  the  depth  of  his 
misery  at  the  Tower  House  School,  when  she  had  helped 
and  advised  him  by  telling  of  her  way  with  her  own 
Sunday-school  boys:  "  You  jus'  try  it,"  she  had  said. 
"  I  mean  to  say,  whatever 's  the  good  of  anybod}^  if 
they  don't  try  to  make  everybody  else  happy,  is  there? 
You  jus'  try."  He  had  tried.  He  had  made  the  boys 
happy.  Himself  he  had  touched  happiness  in  theirs. 
O  blind,  O  blind!  She  had  given  the  very  secret  of 
happiness  into  his  hands,  and  he  had  used  it  and  proved 
it  and  yet,  so  chained  in  self,  had  never  recognised  it, 
but  had  pressed  on  for  further  proof.  On  past  her 
"  Aren't  you  quiet,  though,  sometimes?  I  don't  mind, 
dear."  On  past  her  "  Oh,  won't  I  keep  you  quiet  just 
when  you're  working!  "  On  to  her  piteous  cry:  "Oh, 
didn't  I  think  you  loved  me  truly!  "  On,  on,  voracious 
in  his  blindness  as  vampire  in  its  lust,  on,  on,  demand- 
ing yet  another  life  until  she  says:  "  Well,  both  of  us, 
dear,  what's  the  sense  to  it?  "  Until  she  lies  there, 
broken,  that  he  might  live.  Until  she  lies  here  uncon- 
scious and  only,  under  God,  to  wake  to  die. 

"  Kill  me!    Kill  me!  "  he  groans.    "  Let  me  find  hell, 
if  any  hell  is  vile  enough  to  hold  me.    Let  me  not  live 


THE  SEEING  385 

but  to  create  hell  here  on  earth  for  all  who  come  about 
me.  "  O  ye  world  of  the  Lord:  bless  ye  the  Lord."  He 
had  crushed  out  that  praise.  "Let's  have  a  laugh!  " 
He  had  crushed  out  that  laughter. 

Kill  himself.  That  was  left.  That  was  all.  Ah,  if 
he  had  but  killed  himself  when,  on  that  night  countless 
ages  of  changed  identity  ago,  he  had  thrown  himself 
into  the  river!  Who  had  been  saved  had  he  not  lived? 
What  of  delight  had  he  not  robbed  the  world  had  he 
not  trailed  across  it?  Who  had  been  saved?  Old  Pud- 
dlebox  —  old  Puddlebox  had  been  alive,  jovial,  genial, 
praising.  Essie  —  Essie  had  been  alive,  laughing,  lov- 
ing, streaming  her  sunshine.  Who  would  have  missed 
him?  None,  none,  for  there  was  none  in  all  his  life  he 
had  brought  happiness. 

Was  there  none,  indeed?  What  is  this  sudden  appre- 
hension as  of  some  new  dismay  that  checks  and  holds 
him?  What  new  revelation  of  his  depths  has  that  ques- 
tion unlocked,  unloosed  upon  him?  What  change, 
what  agony  is  here?  What  bursts  within  his  heart? 
What  seems  to  struggle  in  the  air  to  reach  him?  What 
sweeps  across  that  quick,  that  nucleus  of  life,  that  core, 
that  essence,  that  as  deep  waters  takes  his  breath  and 
holds  him  trembling  where  till  now  in  torture  he  has 
writhed? 

"  Matey!     Matey!  " 

"Captain!    Captain!" 

Ah,  tumult  inexpressible  as  of  bursting  floods  rushing 
in  mist  and  spray  from  bondage;  ah,  surging  of  immen- 
sity of  thoughts,  of  visions.  Missed  him  had  he  died? 
There  was  one,  there  was  one  had  lost  a  little  happiness 
had  he  died  when  he  had  tried  to  die.  "  Captain!  Cap- 
tain! " 


386  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

He  hears  his  voice  as  he  had  heard  it  in  the  ward: 
"  Matey!    Matey!    Gor'  bless  yer,  Matey!  " 

He  turns  about  on  the  seat.  He  throws  his  arms 
upon  its  rail.    He  buries  his  face  upon  them. 

There  is  a  step  across  the  road.  A  hand  touches  him. 
"  Arthur?    Is  that  you,  Arthur?  " 

Mr.  Bickers,  bending  above  him. 

"  Is  she  dead?  " 

"  She's  still  unconscious.  I'm  anxious  for  Mrs. 
Bickers,  Arthur.  I  want  to  take  her  to  lie  down  a  little. 
Would  you  just  come  and  watch  in  case  our  Essie 
wakes?  " 

He  gets  up  and  goes  with  Mr.  Bickers  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PRAYER   OF   MR.    WRIFORD 


Look  where  she  lies.  Never  to  wake?  Unconscious, 
and  only,  under  God,  to  wake  to  die?  Surely  she  but 
reposes,  smiling,  smiling  there?  Look  where  her  face, 
surrounded  by  her  hair,  rests  there  untouched  by 
scratch  or  mark  or  bruise.  Surely  she  only  sleeps; 
and  sleeping,  surely  still  pursues  those  gay  young  fancies 
of  her  joyous  life:  look  how  they  seem  to  smile  upon 
those  soft,  expressive  lips  of  hers.  Look  where  she  lies. 
Look  how  her  tender  form,  hid  of  its  suffering,  lies  there 
so  slim  and  shapely  beneath  the  wrappings  drawn  about 
her.  Look  at  her  hands,  each  slightly  closed,  that  lie 
upon  her  breast:  surely  to  touch  them  is  to  feel  re- 
sponsive their  firm,  cool  clasp?  surely  to  touch  them  is 
to  wake  her?  Look  where  she  lies.  Never  to  wake? 
Unconscious,  and  only,  under  God,  to  wake  to  die? 
Surely  she  but  reposes,  smiling,  smiling  there? 

Look  where  she  lies.  This  is  her  room.  Look  where 
here,  and  here,  and  here,  and  here,  are  all  her  little 
trinkets,  treasures,  trifles,  she  has  brought  with  her 
from  home  for  this  her  jolly  holiday.  These  are  her 
portraits  here,  in  those  plush  frames,  of  Mother  and 
of  Dad.  That  is  her  text  she  has  illumined,  taken  from 
her  "  fav'rit:  "  "  Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates:   and 

387 


388  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

be  ye  lift  up,  ye  everlasting  doors."  An  odd,  long  text 
for  framing.  Those  are  her  copper  wire  "  native  " 
bracelets  there.  "Oh,  you  don't  have  to  look  half 
smart  on  the  parade,  evenings!  "  That  is  her  Church- 
service  by  her  bed.  He  remembers  that  first  night 
when  he  used  it.  Those  are  her  best  gloves,  smoothed 
out  there.  That  old  stump  of  lead  pencil  lying  upon 
them  was  his.    He  remembers  it. 

Look  where  she  lies.  On  the  threshold  he  pauses. 
That  is  old  Mr.  Bickers  gone  again  on  his  knees  against 
the  bed,  his  white  head  bowed  within  his  hands.  That 
is  Mrs.  Bickers  kneehng  there,  her  lips  moving.  Bro- 
kenly now,  such  an  odd,  deep,  trembling  sound,  comes 
Mr.  Bickers'  voice.  Brokenly  —  jumbling  his  own 
words  with  words  familiar.  It  is  the  prayer  he  had 
said  was  their  daily  prayer,  and  he  jumbles  it  with 
other  prayers  and  into  it  jumbles  his  own. 

"Lord,  now  lettest  — "  Mr.  Bickers  stops;  and 
there  is  long  silence;  and  he  begins  again:  "Lord,  if 
it  be  thy  will,  if  it  be  thy  will,  if  it  be  thy  will,  if  our 
Essie's  suffering,  if  it  be  thy  will.  Lord,  now  lettest  this 
thy  servant,  thy  servant,  depart  in  peace,  in  peace,  in 
peace,  according  to  .  .  .  mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  .  .  . 
through  the  tender  mercies  of  our  God  whereby  the 
dayspring  .  .  .  from  on  high  .  .  .  hath  visited  us. 
Amen.    Amen." 

Mrs.  Bickers  says  "  Amen."  Mrs.  Bickers  collapses 
where  she  kneels.  Mr.  Bickers  goes  to  her  and  raises 
her  and  says:  "There,  Mother!  There,  Mother,  dear! 
Come  and  rest,  Mother.  Rest  just  a  Httle  while,  Mother. 
Arthur's  here.  Arthur  will  stay  by  her.  Arthur  will 
tell  us.    Just  a  little  while,  Mother,  dear." 

She  has  no  resistance.    She  is  collapsed  in  his  arms. 


PRAYER  OF  MR.  WRIFORD  389 

He  supports  her  from  the  room.  He  says  to  Mr.  Wri- 
ford:  "  I'll  just  lay  her  on  her  bed,  Arthur.  Just  across 
the  passage.  Doors  open.  I'll  hear  you.  The  doctor's 
down-stairs.  There,  Mother!  There,  there,  Mother." 
Look  where  she  lies.    He  is  alone  with  her. 


II 


Come  to  this  Mr.  Wriford  on  his  knees  with  her,  his 
hands  upon  her  hand,  his  head  between  his  outstretched 
arms.  Come  to  his  revelation  she  has  revealed  to  him; 
to  that  which  came  to  him  with  sudden  thought  of  Cap- 
tain; come  to  his  prayer. 

•"  This  is  my  dear,  my  darUng,  lying  here.  ...  I 
have  looked  back.  I  have  looked  back  upon  such  piti- 
less review  of  all  my  blindness,  that  to  look  forward, 
to  live  and  not  destroy  myself,  is  almost  heavier  than 
I  can  bear.  ...  I  will  bear  it.  ...  I  see.  I  under- 
stand. I  accept.  Self  has  been  the  cause  of  all  my 
wreckage  —  thought  of  myself,  always  of  myself  and 
of  no  other.  I  see  that  now  —  clearly,  bitterly,  I  see 
it.  And  yet  —  and  yet,  O  God  —  in  the  very  moment 
of  seeing  it,  I  still  thought  to  kill  myself.  That  was 
self  again.  I  am  so  rooted  in  self  that,  in  the  very  hour 
of  my  revelation,  still  only  of  myself  I  thought  —  only 
of  saving  myself  by  death  from  these  my  torments, 
only  of  ending  them  because  I  could  not  bear  to  let 
myself  endure  them.  All  my  Hfe  I  have  lived  in  self. 
Ah,  with  my  eyes  open  —  deeper  shame!  deeper  shame! 
—  I  almost  had  died  in  self.  Ah,  even  realising  that, 
still  I  cannot  tear  self  out  of  me,  still  I  kneel  here  dread- 
ing to  live,  fearing  to  Uve,  crying  that  it  is  heavier  than 


390  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

I  can  bear,  heavier  than  I  can  bear!  Oh,  what  a  thing 
is  self  that  with  such  cunning  can  prevail,  how  deeply 
hidden,  in  what  myriad  forms  disguised!  Help  me  to 
see  it.    Keep  my  eyes  open.    Keep  my  eyes  open.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  I  accept  then.  I  will  not  kill  myself.  .  .  . 
Lord,  since  I  have  accepted,  use  this  my  dear,  my  dar- 
ling, no  longer  for  me.  .  .  .  This  is  my  dear,  my  dar- 
ling, lying  here  beneath  thy  hand.  She  has  offered  her 
life  for  mine.  Let  it  suffice,  0  God.  Judge  me  apart 
from  her.  Judge  me  apart  from  her.  Judge  me  apart 
from  my  darling.  One  life  came  to  me  to  open  my  eyes. 
I  remained  blind.  He  gave  the  deeper  sacrifice  — 
blind  in  my  blindness  I  remained.  Then  Essie.  Thy 
servant.  My  jolly  little  Essie.  If  I  had  killed  myself, 
if  by  destroying  myself  I  had  mocked  her  sacrifice, 
mocked  Thee,  O  God,  then  mightest  Thou  by  closing 
Thy  hand  upon  her  have  pursued  me  even  into  hell. 
But  I  accept  —  but  I  accept,  O  God.  Therefore  re- 
lieve her  —  therefore  relieve  her  —  therefore  let  suffice 
that  which  she  has  done.  .  .  . 

"  Am  I  daring  to  bargain?  Am  I  stipulating,  mak- 
ing terms,  advancing  a  price?  Remember,  remember 
that  I  am  new  before  Thee,  long  out  of  prayer,  long 
unaccustomed  to  Thy  ways.  It  is  no  bargain,  O  God. 
It  is  only  confusion  of  these  my  thoughts.  All  that  I 
ask  is  this  —  judge  me  apart  from  her,  use  her  no  longer 
for  me,  judge  me  no  more  through  her,  let  that  which 
she  has  done  suffice.  Look,  I  will  go  away  from  her 
and  leave  her.  Whether,  beneath  Thy  wisdom,  she 
lives  or  dies  shall  nothing  prevail  with  me.  If  she  may 
live  it  shall  not  strengthen  me  —  no  bargain  there,  O 
God.  If  she  must  die  it  shall  not  shake  me  —  O  God, 
no  bargain  there.     Judge  me  apart  from  her.     I  will 


PRAYER  OF  MR.    WRIFORD  391 

go  out  of  her  life.  I  will  go  out  from  every  knowledge 
of  Thy  will  towards  her.  I  will  not  even  pray  for  her. 
I  will  not  even  pray  for  her  lest  in  my  heart,  beneath 
my  words,  beneath  my  thoughts,  it  is  in  cunning  that 
actually  I  am  here  —  agreeable  to  forego  destruction 
of  myself  if  I  may  know  that  she  is  spared;  resolved 
to  kill  myself  if  I  be  guilty  of  her  death.  Enough  — 
enough.  Let  me  end  with  that  while  I  have  clearness 
of  vision  to  see  it.  This  is  my  dear,  my  darling,  lying 
here.  I  will  go  out  from  all  knowledge  of  her.  Judge 
me  apart  from  her.    Let  that  which  she  has  done  suffice." 

He  withdrew  his  hands  from  her  hand  as. though  in 
evidence  of  detaching  himself  from  her.  He  thrust 
them  out  again  to  touch  her  and  cried  "  Essie!  Essie!  " 
He  then  took  them  to  his  face. 

He  said:  "Let  me  speak  as  a  man.  I  will  go  out 
from  her.  I  will  live.  Let  me  speak  as  a  man.  Let  me 
not  make  vain  promises,  offer  false  protests.  This  is 
not  religion.  Religion,  as  it  is  lived,  is  nothing  to  me. 
Let  me  not  delude  myself  nor  seek  in  cunning  to  delude 
Thee.  Let  me  not  try  to  pretend  that  this  that  I  have 
suffered  converts  me  suddenly  from  that  which  I  was 
to  that  which  Essie  is.  Let  me  speak  as  a  man.  That 
is  not  of  a  moment.  I  am  not  one  man  in  one  moment, 
a  new  man  in  the  next.  I  am  the  same.  All  my  infirm- 
ities the  same  —  rooted  in  me  as  my  bones :  bones  of 
my  spirit  and  no  more  changed  than  bones  of  my  body 
that  are  rooted  in  my  flesh.  I  am  the  same.  Ay,  even 
as  I  say  it,  I  am  tempted  to  say  that  I  am  not  the  same 
but  am  changed.  Rescue  me  from  that  cunning.  Keep 
me  from  that.  Let  me  not  even  in  cunning  pretend, 
in  seK-delusion  believe,  that  this  hour,  these  thoughts, 
these  torments  I  have  endured  will  all  my  Ufe  remain 


392  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

with  me.  I  have  known  penitence  before.  I  have 
knelt  in  presence  of  death  before.  I  have  wept.  I  have 
vowed.  Where  are  my  tears?  Where  my  promises? 
Let  me  speak  as  a  man.  Time  swings  on.  That  which 
is  all  the  world  to-day  is  less  than  dust  to-morrow, 
That  which  is  laid,  beneath  death's  shadow,  in  peni- 
tence before  Thy  feet,  is  there  in  ashes,  when  death  has 
winged  away,  to  mock  Thy  mercy.  Time  swings  on. 
Vows  made  in  penitence  —  they  are  no  more  than  to 
the  drunkard  his  drink:  delusion,  forgetfulness,  ano- 
dyne, courage  until  the  spirit  that  has  tricked  the 
brain  has  gone,  until  the  travail  that  has  worn  the  soul 
has  ebbed.  Back  then  to  fear,  to  baseness,  as  surely 
as  night  succeeds  to  day.  .  .  . 

"  What  then?  What  do  I  purpose?  What  have  I 
to  offer?  Lord,  there  is  only  this  in  me  that  is  different: 
that  my  eyes  are  opened  to  that  to  which  all  my  Hfe 
they  have  been  sealed.  I  have  nothing  to  promise, 
nothing  to  vow.  I  have  only  to  ask:  Keep  my  eyes 
open;  help  me  to  remember  this  that  my  eyes  have 
seen;  help  me  to  know  what  is  self;  help  me  to  rid  me 
of  it.  All  my  Hfe  —  all  my  life  from  the  beginning  it 
has  been  self.  Back  in  the  London  days  when  I  was 
working  day  and  night,  when  I  was  longing  to  be  free, 
when  I  thought  I  was  giving  up  my  Hfe  to  others,  it 
was  all  self,  self  that  was  destroying  me.  It  was  not 
ceaseless  work  that  wrought  upon  my  peace  of  mind, 
robbed  me  of  my  youth;  it  was  pitying  myself,  thinking 
of  myself,  contrasting  my  lot  with  that  of  others.  It 
is  not  work  nor  trouble  that  kills  a  man,  robs  him  of 
sleep,  loses  him  his  happiness  —  it  is  turning  the  stress 
of  it  inwards  upon  himself,  never  forgetting  himself 
when  occupied  with  it,  always  keeping  himself  before 


PRAYER  OF   MR.   WRIFORD  393 

his  eyes,  watching  himself,  pitying  himself.  Brida 
knew  it.  '  You  think  too  much  about  yourself,  Phil,' 
she  used  to  tell  me.  That  old  Puddlebox  had  the  secret 
of  it  and  told  it  me  plainly.  *  You  think  too  much 
about  yourself,  boy,  and  that  is  what's  the  matter  with 
you  and  with  most  of  us.'  He  told  it  to  me  plainly. 
'  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,'  he  told  me  when  he  had 
heard  my  story.  '  Your  story  is  the  same  as  my  story 
and  the  same  as  everybody  else's  story  in  this  way: 
that  you've  never  done  anything  wrong  in  all  your  life, 
and  that  all  that's  happened  to  you  is  what  other  folk 
have  put  upon  you.'  Ay,  that  was  it!  I  thought  I 
was  sacrificing  my  life;  I  was  grudging  every  thought 
of  it,  every  moment  of  it  given  away  from  my  own  pur- 
suits. How  could  I  be  sacrificing  when  in  doing  so  I 
was  unhappy?  That  is  negation  in  terms.  To  sacrifice 
is  happiness.  Old  Puddlebox  showed  it  me.  This  my 
Essie  showed  it  me.  To  give  —  to  give  time,  money, 
life  itself,  and  have  compassion  for  oneself  in  giving 
them,  that  is  the  very  pit  of  self,  worse  than  self  open 
and  wilful.  That  is  the  selfishness  that  all  my  life  has 
been  my  curse,  my  wreckage.  All  that  ever  has  hap- 
pened to  me  I  have  seen  in  terms  of  myself  and  of  no 
other.  Every  trouble,  every  irritation  that  in  those 
London  days  those  poor  things  about  me  brought  to 
me,  I  at  once  turned  upon  myself  —  looked  at  with 
my  eyes,  not  with  theirs;  thought  instantly  and  always, 
even  while  I  helped  them,  how  it  affected  me,  not  how 
it  affected  them.  Ah,  that  is  the  heart  of  misery  and 
that  is  the  secret  of  happiness!  To  see  only  with  one's 
own  eyes,  to  judge  only  from  one's  own  point,  to  esti- 
mate life  in  terms  of  self  and  of  no  other:  that  is  to 
goad  oneself  on  from  trial  to  trial,  from  misery  to  mis- 


394  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

ery.  To  see  with  others'  eyes,  to  judge  from  their  out- 
look upon  life,  to  estimate  life  in  terms  of  those  upon 
whom  Ufe  presses  and  not  in  terms  of  self:  that  is  the 
secret  of  happiness,  that  is  the  thing  in  Ufe  that  I  have 
missed.  .  .  . 

"  Try  me  not,  O  God,  in  great  things.  Help  me  in 
small.  In  the  small  things,  in  the  small,  the  everyday 
things,  O  God,  that  is  where  self  comes  —  that  is  where 
I  shall  not  see  it,  that  is  where,  disguised,  it  will  deceive 
me.  To  quarrel,  to  complain,  to  be  impatient  —  what 
is  it  but  self?  Help  me  to  put  myself  where  each  one 
stands  that  comes  about  me.  Help  me  to  look  with 
their  eyes  —  how  have  vexation  then?  There  is  no 
vexation,  there  is  no  unhappiness  in  all  this  world  but 
what  through  self  a  man  brings  into  it.  All  happiness, 
this  world  —  in  every  hour  happiness,  in  every  remotest 
corner  happiness.  But  man  lives  not  in  it  but  in  his 
own  world  —  the  world  that  he  himself  creates;  of  which 
he  is  the  centre;  that,  however  Httle  he  be,  revolves 
about  him.  That  is  whence  is  his  unhappiness.  Others 
come  into  his  world.  Ah,  if  he  can  but  watch  them  in 
it  with  their  own  eyes,  not  with  his!  God!  what  a 
world  this  world  would  be  if  under  Thy  hand  it  were 
governed  as  man  governs  the  world  which  he  himself 
creates  —  as  I  have  governed  mine !  Tolerance  for 
none  but  self,  pity  for  none  but  self,  all  within  it  judged, 
measured,  watched  in  terms  of  self!  Rid  me  of  that! 
Rid  me  of  self.  Help  me  to  see  self.  Help  me  to  see 
with  others'  eyes,  not  with  my  own,  ..." 

So  ends  his  prayer  —  so  ends  his  vigil.  Mr.  Bickers 
returns,  and  it  is  towards  daybreak.  He  looks  once 
more  at  her,  smiling,  smiling  there.    He  will  not  even 


PRAYER  OF  MR.  WRIFORD  395 

pray  for  her.  Let  that  which  she  has  done  suffice.  Let 
him  be  judged  apart  from  her  —  not  strengthened  if 
she  may  live,  not  shaken  if  she  must  die.  He  goes  do^n 
the  stairs;  out  into  yoimg  morning  spreading  across 
the  sea. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

PILGRIMAGE 


Not  to  know  —  in  no  way  to  be  prevailed  upon  in 
this  his  return  to  life  by  knowledge  of  whether  she  lives 
or  has  died.  In  no  way  to  be  strengthened  —  but  of 
himself  to  live  —  if  life  has  been  permitted  her;  in  no 
way  to  be  shaken  if  her  life  has  been  required.  To  be 
judged  apart  from  her.  .  .  . 

Come  with  this  Mr.  Wriford  while  for  a  year  he  thus 
places  in  proof  his  acceptance.  He  takes  up  his  life 
where  on  his  flight  from  London  he  had  left  it.  To  do 
that  —  not  to  admit  his  every  impulse  which  calls  upon 
him  to  hide,  to  live  in  seclusion,  and  there  dwell  with 
his  memories,  cherish  his  affliction  —  is  part  of  his  bond 
pledged  by  her  bedside.  The  secret  of  happiness  has 
been  purchased  for  him;  let  him  not  mock  that  which 
has  been  paid.  He  has  the  secret;  let  him  exercise  it. 
Abandonment  to  grief  —  what  is  that  but  pity  of  self? 
Life  in  retreat,  unable  to  face  the  world  —  what  is  that 
but  admission  that  his  fate,  that  which  affects  himself, 
is  harder  than  he  can  bear? 

Bound  up  in  this,  he  takes  train  immediately  from 
Whitecliffe  to  London,  presently  is  involved  in  all  the 
tortures  that  his  welcoming  inflicts  upon  him.  His  re- 
turn is  made  a  sensation  of  the  hour  by  his  friends  and 

396 


PILGRIMAGE  397 

soon,  as  he  finds,  by  that  larger  circle  to  whom  his  books 
have  made  him  known.  "  Where  have  you  been?  " 
It  is  a  question  to  which  he  seems  to  have  to  spend 
every  hour  of  all  his  days  in  formulating  some  kind  of 
answer.  It  is  a  question  —  and  all  the  congratulation 
and  felicitation  that  goes  with  it  —  that  often  he  tells 
himself  he  can  no  longer  stand  and  must  escape. 
"  Where  have  you  been?  "  and  all  the  while  it  is  at 
Whitecliffe  —  in  that  room,  among  those  scenes  — 
that  his  heart  is,  and  that  he  desires  only  to  be  left  alone 
to  keep  there.  But  he  does  not  escape.  But  he  does 
not  keep  himself  alone.  It  is  self  that  bids  him.  It  is 
self  he  has  come  out  to  know  and  face.  He  forces  him- 
self to  see  with  the  eyes  of  those  that  do  them  the  kind- 
nesses that  are  done  him.  He  makes  himself  respond. 
He  permits  himself  no  shrinking. 

He  revisits  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Filmer.  They  have  "  got 
along  very  well  without  him,"  they  tell  him. 

"  I  am  bound  to  say,"  says  Mrs.  Filmer,  "  that  at 
the  time  we  thought  your  conduct  showed  very  little 
consideration  for  us.    I  am  bound  to  say  that." 

"  A  mere  postcard,"  says  Mr.  Filmer,  "  can  reUeve 
much  suspense;  but  one  does  not  of  course  always  think 
of  duties  to  others,  h'm,  ha." 

"  Well,  that's  just  what  I  am  here  to  think  of,"  Mr. 
Wriford  responds.  "  Is  there  anything  I  can  do?  Any- 
thing you  want?  " 

There  is  nothing,  as  it  appears,  except  a  manifesta- 
tion of  fear  that  he  proposes  to  upset  the  establishment 
by  quartering  himself  upon  them,  relief  from  which 
expands  them  somewhat,  and  they  proceed  with  the 
news  that  two  of  the  boys,  his  nephews,  are  on  their 
way  home  on  leave. 


398  THE  CLEAN  HEART 

The  boys  come,  and  in  their  affairs  and  in  their  inter- 
ests he  finds  better  response  to  the  "  Anything  I  can 
do?  "  than  was  received  from  the  Filmers.  Till  their 
arrival  he  has  had,  in  seclusion  of  his  rooms,  intervals 
when  he  can  retreat  within  his  thoughts.  There  is  a 
hoHday  home  to  be  made  for  them,  and  he  takes  a  flat 
and  occupies  himself  with  them,  and  these  intervals 
are  denied  him.  The  young  men  are  here  to  have  a 
good  time.  There  are  their  eyes  for  him  to  see  with  — 
not  his  own.  He  has  a  trick,  they  both  notice  it,  of 
saying:  "  Well,  tell  me  just  how  you  look  at  the  busi- 
ness." It  is  a  trick  that  is  expressed  also  in  his  manner, 
in  a  certain  inviting,  sympathetic  way  that  he  has,  and 
it  comes  to  be  noticed  in  the  much  wider  circle  of  his 
friends.  "  Used  to  be  a  fearfully  reserved  chap,  Wri- 
ford,"  they  say.  "  Never  quite  knew  whether  he  was 
shy  or  thought  himself  too  good  for  you.  Do  you  no- 
tice how  different  he  is  now?  " 

"  Do  you  ever  notice  him  when  he's  alone,  though  — 
sitting  in  the  club  here  and  not  knowing  you're  looking 
at  him?  "  another  would  reply.  "  There's  a  look  on 
his  face  then  —  he's  been  through  it,  Wriford,  I'll  bet 
money." 

II 

Ah,  he  has  been  through  it  and  daily  feels  the  mark 
of  it.  Time  swings  on.  He  settles  down.  The  sensa- 
tion of  his  return  evaporates.  His  nephews  go  back 
to  their  duties.  He  settles  down.  This  is  his  post  — 
here  in  the  hurly-burly.  He  will  not  desert  it.  He 
takes  up  his  work  again.  Long  days  he  sits  staring  at 
the  blank  sheets  of  paper  before  him.    His  thoughts  are 


PILGRIMAGE  399 

ready.  There  obtrudes  between  them  and  the  marshal- 
ling of  them  memories  of  how  it  had  been  planned  he 
again  was  to  resmne  them:  "  Won't  I  keep  you  quiet 
just,  dear!  "...  That  is  self,  pity  for  himself,  griev- 
ing for  himself.  Let  him  put  it  away.  Let  him  get  to 
work.  Let  it  return  —  ah,  let  her  face,  her  voice,  her 
jolly  laughter  return  to  him  just  for  an  hour  when  work 
is  done,  just  while  he  lies  awake.  .  .  . 

Come  to  this  Mr.  Wriford  when  a  year  is  gone.  Sum- 
mer again  —  June  again  —  the  holidays  again  —  again 
that  day.  He  has  lived  through  a  year  of  it.  Through 
a  long  year  he  has  proved  himself.  If  he  might  know 
certainly  that  she  is  dead,  he  could  not  fall  back  again. 
That  is  what  he  has  feared  at  the  outset.  He  does  not 
fear  it  now.  He  has  lived  through  a  year  of  it.  He  is 
assured  of  himself  now.  If  he  might  but  make  a  pil- 
grimage to  Whitecliffe,  see  where  he  had  walked  with 
her,  see  where  perhaps  she  lies,  permit  his  spirit  to  walk 
those  roads,  those  paths,  those  fields  with  her  again, 
suffer  it  to  stand  beside  her.  .  .   ! 

He  goes.  He  goes  first,  on  a  sudden  fancy,  to  far 
Port  Rannock  and  stands  beside  the  mound  that  marks 
the  grave  he  knows  there. 

"  Well,  you  old  Puddlebox,"  says  Mr.  Wriford,  stand- 
ing there.  "  Well,  you  old  Puddlebox.  How  goes  it? 
How  goes  it  now?  Well  enough  with  you,  old  Puddle- 
box! You  knew  the  secret.  I  know  it  now.  Too  late 
for  me,  old  Puddlebox.  But,  if  you  know,  you'll  be 
shouting  your  praises  on  it,  eh,  old  Puddlebox?  What 
was  it  you  said  as  the  sea  came  on  to  us?  '  Well,  we've 
had  some  rare  times  together,  boy,  since  first  you  came 
down  the  road.'  " 


400  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

He  suddenly  cried:  "  I  would  to  God  —  I  would  to 
God  you  might  shake  off  this  earth,  these  stones,  and 
come  to  me  face  to  face  for  one  moment  while  I  clasped 
your  hand!  " 

III 

So  on  to  Whitecliffe.  So  to  his  pilgrimage  there. 
Just  such  another  day  awaits  him  as  on  that  day  a  year 
ago.  Sunshine  and  clouded  sun,  as  he  walks  the  parade. 
Presage  of  rain,  as  on  through  Yexley  Green  to  White- 
house  he  goes.  Whitehouse  still  stands  empty;  he  walks 
the  garden,  looks  through  the  windows,  tries  the  door, 
treads  again  the  rooms  where  last  he  had  walked  with 
her.  "  Jolly  little  Essie's  room  "  this  was  to  have  been. 
.  .  .  This  was  where  he  would  write.  .  .  .  This  was 
where  wouldn't  she  keep  him  quiet  just!  .  .  .  She  sat 
there  while  he  told  her  .  .  . 

Up  the  path  to  the  cliff,  along  the  cliff  and  past  that 
place,  paused  long  upon  it,  and  on  to  Whitecliffe  Church. 
Here  is  the  churchyard.  He  knows  all  these  old  graves 
—  he  had  peered  here  and  here  and  here  with  Essie, 
puzzling  their  quaint  inscriptions.  It  is  for  a  new 
stone  he  looks.  Yes,  there  is  one.  Three  sides  of  the 
church  he  walks  and  only  the  old  stones  sees.  Come 
to  the  porch,  a  new  white  cross  confronts  him.  He 
goes  to  it.  It  is  not  hers!  Sense  tells  him  they  would 
not  have  brought  her  here,  would  not  have  left  her  here. 
They  would  have  taken  her  home.  Yes,  but  that  mo- 
ment while  he  crossed  the  turf  towards  the  cross,  that 
moment  while  its  letters  came  in  view  —  and  were  not 
"  Essie,"  —  has  shaken  him  so  that  his  limbs  tremble,  so 
t):  at  he  must  somewhere  rest  .  .  .  there  is  the  porch. 


PILGRIMAGE  401 

A  troop  of  noisy  boys  come  through  the  gate,  and 
then  more  boys  by  ones  and  twos.  An  old  man  who 
comes  from  within  the  church  and  looks  out  upon  the 
churchyard  for  a  moment  remarks  to  him  first  that  there 
is  going  to  be  a  shower,  then,  calling  out  in  reproof  at 
a  pair  of  the  laughing  boys,  that  it  is  choir-practice 
just  going  to  begin.  The  old  man  returns  to  his  duties; 
the  last  of  the  boys  seem  to  have  arrived:  there  are 
sounds  within  the  church  and  premonitory  notes  of  the 
organ;  some  heavy  drops  of  the  rain  that  has  been 
threatening;  then  in  a  sudden  stream  the  shower. 

From  where  he  sits  he  can  see  far  up  the  road  beyond 
the  gate.  He  sees  a  group  that  had  been  approaching 
shelter  beneath  a  distant  tree.  The  downpour  falls  in  a 
deluge  that  is  fierce  and  short,  passes  and  leaves  the 
path  in  puddles,  and  with  unnoting  eyes  he  sees  the 
group  beneath  the  tree  desert  its  shelter  and  come  hur- 
rymg  towards  the  church.  The  organ  is  playing  now, 
voices  swing  in  sudden  volume  of  sound;  unheeding,  as 
with  his  eyes  he  is  watching  without  seeing,  he  yet  is  sub- 
consciously aware  of  the  regular  rise  and  fall  of  psalms. 

With  his  eyes  imseeing !  They  suddenly,  as  he  watches, 
declare  to  him  that  which  sets  a  drumming  in  his  head, 
a  snatching  at  his  breath.  The  group  has  reached  the 
gate.  It  is  an  old  man  drawing  a  wicker  bath-chair, 
an  old  lady  walking  behind  it.  Drumming  in  his  head; 
it  passes;  there  succeeds  to  it  a  rocking  of  all  the  ground 
about  his  feet,  a  swimming,  a  receding,  a  swift  approach- 
ing of  all  the  land  beyond  the  porch.  That  old  man 
is  opening  the  gate,  turning  his  back  to  draw  the  bath- 
chair  carefully  through,  revealing  one  that  sits  within 
it,  coming  on  now  .  .  .  coming  on  now  .  .  .  closer  and 
closer  and  closer.  .  .  . 


402  THE   CLEAN  HEART 

This  Mr.  Wriford  simply  stands  there.  He  doesn't 
do  anything,  and  he  doesn't  say  anything.  He  can't. 
You  see,  he  has  been  through  a  good  deal  for  a  good 
long  time.  This  is  the  end  of  a  long  passage  for  him. 
You  know  how  weak  he  is.  You  probably  despise  him. 
Well,  then,  despise  him  now.  He  has  no  parts,  no  qual- 
ities, for  this.  He  makes  a  bungling  business  of  it.  He 
has  come  to  the  doorway  of  the  porch  and  simply  stands 
there.  They  have  seen  him.  They  are  staring  at  him. 
They  are  saying  things.  They  are  exclaiming.  He 
doesn't  hear.    He  just  stands  there.  .  .  . 

Then  he  begins.  He  jolts  down  off  the  step  of  the 
porch.  He  stumbles  along  the  few  paces  to  the  bath- 
chair.  She  that  is  seated  there  gives  a  kind  of  laugh 
and  a  kind  of  cry.  He  falls  on  his  knees,  kneeUng  in 
puddles,  and  puts  his  arms  out,  and  takes  her  in  them, 
and  catches  her  to  him,  and  buries  his  face  against  her, 
and  holds  her,  holds  her  —  and  has  nothing  at  all  that 
he  can  say,  not  even  her  name. 

Well,  nor  has  she.  She  just  has  her  arms  about  him. 
.  .  .  When  at  last  she  speaks,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bickers 
have  gone  —  into  the  church,  or  into  the  air,  or  into 
the  ground  —  gone  somewhere  for  some  reason.  And 
even  then  it  is  not  at  first  speech  but  some  odd  little 
sound  that  she  makes,  and  at  that  he  looks  up  and  she 
stoops  to  him  —  and  there  they  are,  her  cheek  against 
his  cheek. 

"  My  back's  a  fair  old  caution,"  says  Essie  then. 
"  They  don't  think  I'll  ever  walk  again." 

He  stammers  something  about  "  I'll  carry  you, 
dear.    I'll  carry  you." 

Each  in  the  other's  arms,  her  cheek  against  his  cheek. 

"  Just  going  to  Whitehouse,  we  were,"  says  Essie. 


PILGRIMAGE  403 

"  My  goodness,  if  it  hadn't  rained  and  made  us  come 
for  shelter!  " 

He  says  something  about:  "It's  empty  —  it's  still 
empty  for  us  —  Whitehouse." 

Some  one  opens  the  church  door.  Young  voices  and 
music  that  have  been  muflSed  come  streaming  through 
towards  them  — 

Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  Lord:  or  who  shall 
rise  tip  in  his  holy  place? 

Even  lie  that  hath  clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart:  and 
that  hath  not  lift  up  his  mind  unto  vanity,  nor  sworn  to 
deceive  his  neighbour. 

A  sound  escapes  him.  He  feels  a  sudden  moisture 
from  her  face  to  his.  The  singing  goes  deeper;  then 
with  triumphant  surge  and  sweep  breaks  out  again: 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates,  and  he  ye  lift  up,  ye 
everlasting  doors.  ..." 

"  What,  are  you  crying  too?  "  says  Essie.  "  Aren't 
we  a  pair  of  us,  though?  " 


THE  END 


NOVELS    BY    A.    S.    M.    HUTCHINSON 


William  Lyon  Phelps  in  the  New  York  Times  says : 

"Hutchuisoa  has  published  four  novels,  and  I  heartily 
recommend  them  all:  'Once  Aboard  the  Lugger — ,'  1908; 
'The  Happy  Warrior,'  1912;  'The  Clean  Heart,'  1914;  'K 
Winter  Comes,'  1921." 

IF  WINTER  COMES 

12mo.    415  pages. 
"'If  Winter  Comes'  is  more  than  a  mere  novel,  it  is  an 
epic  poem  of  very  great  beauty.    It  will  last  long  after  most 
other  literary  products  of  this  age  have  gone  to  an  obscure 
and  unlamented  grave."  —  Life,  New  York. 

ONCE  ABOARD  THE  LUGGER  — 

12mo.    327  pages. 
"  At  once  serious  in  its  mockery  of  seriousness  and  touched 
with  genuine  sentiment  in  its  sympathy  with  the  emotions  of 
youth     .     .    .     Altogether  it    is    refreshing."  —  Everybody's 
Magazine,  New  York. 

THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Frontispiece.  12mo.  448  pages. 
**  ,  ,  .  His  romance  and  his  humor  are  all  his  own,  and  the 
story  is  shot  through  and  through  with  a  fleeting  romance  and 
humor  that  is  all  the  more  effective  because  it  is  so  evanescent. 
Few  novels  exist  in  which  the  characters  are  as  viable  as  Mr. 
Hutchinson's. "  —  Boston  Transcript. 

THE  CLEAN  HEART 

Frontispiece.  12mo.  403  pages. 
"  It  will  find  its  way  to  the  heart  of  the  reader  in  short  order. 
It  has  a  strong  human  interest,  a  hero  whose  cause  commands 
appeal,  and  a  most  lovable  heroine.  .  .  Written  in  fine 
dramatic  style  and  with  character  delineation  that  has  a 
charm  all  its  own."  —  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

LITTLE,  BROWN  &  CO.,  Publishers,  BOSTON 


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